


We as the Sky and the Earth (Wow I Can’t Believe I’m Rewriting Early Conservative Party History Just So I Can Get a Tory Civil Servant and a Liberal MP to Fuck)

by rainbowflavouredfabulous



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Absinthe, Alcohol, Alcohol as a Terrible Coping Mechanism, Alfred and Drummond marry women as covers, All Your Faves Aren't Straight, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Drummond Lives, Arranged Marriages, Bisexual Alfred Paget, Consensual Infidelity, Edward Drummond Lives, Flirting, Frottage, Gay Edward Drummond, Historical figures as queer role models, Homophobic Language, I made this even gayer and inaccurate than the show, Income Tax Act 1842, Infidelity, M/M, Making Out, Marriage of Convenience, Masturbation, Parent-Child Bonding through Alcohol, Period-Typical Homophobia, Political Philosophy as a Metaphor for Societal Attitudes, Praise Kink, Prostitution, Rating will start jumping up soon btw, Rewriting British History, Sex Work, Sex as a Terrible Coping Mechanism, Shakespeare References, Sibling Bonding, Smoking, Tags to be added when more is published, Taking romantic scenes away from the straights, Understanding wives, Very minor underage at the start of the fic, Victorian Homosexuality, Victorian Slang, White's, a lot of champagne, the dogs are fucking and so are the humans, whorephobic language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-03-07 16:45:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13438989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowflavouredfabulous/pseuds/rainbowflavouredfabulous
Summary: The story of how Alfred and Drummond ruled the world.Playlist (updated frequently)





	1. 1830

**Author's Note:**

> Finally, after months of teasing this, I have something to publish. Initially, I wanted this to be a long one-chapter fic but it just grew and grew further and eventually, I thought it best to divide it up into chapters - each chapter will encompass a year so chapters' word count is likely to fluctuate depending on what happened in each year 
> 
> Daisy Goodwin really screwed up the timeline in the show compared to what actually happened historically so in each chapters' notes, I'll note which episode is meant to correlate with each chapter, as well as ages for the first few chapters when there are time skips 
> 
> This is only the prologue and doesn't really add anything to the story but I wanted to establish ages (Alfred is 14, Drummond is 18) and also that the two had some kind of experience with queer relationships before meeting each other 
> 
> The long subtitle is a joke draft name I gave this fic and people seemed to enjoy it, thus it stuck
> 
> Massive shout out to the Victoria group chat on IG, particularly Holly who found historical records about Drummond and Alfred's education; Soph for always supporting whatever I get up to; everyone who commented on my other fics about looking forward to this and to my depression and insomnia for letting me write at 4am

**_"I fly, you stand - we as the sky and the earth."_ **

**_\- PaperJet, Boulevard Depo_ **

 

Alfred doesn’t  _hate_  boarding at Westminster School. True, it is cold and cramped but if there is one thing he learnt since his admission as of two years ago, it is that a now fourteen-year-old boy is surrounded by camaraderie wherever he may be in the school. He counts himself lucky that without any immediate friends at the start of the year, he was taken under the wing of a few students in the Up School, notably a seventeen-year-old by the name of Oliver Haddington who takes interest in the blond hair blue eyed lad for some reason or another.

Alfred simply loves being around people and when Oliver tells him, “call me Ollie,” he thinks nothing of it. The nights get dark, the afternoons quicker as snow starts to settle and the library is one of the few rooms with a constant roaring fire. Alfred and Ollie often find themselves in a hidden corner, close to classical texts where few of the other boys would want to dwell, their curriculum already saturated in dead Roman leaders and vengeful Greek deities.

Like the dutiful student he is, Alfred’s already finished his work for the day and wanders to what he calls  _their_  corner where Ollie already sits, a heavy leather bound book in his hands.

“What are you reading?” Alfred’s voice thankfully not breaking.

Ollie looks up and smiles, dark curls bouncing across his eyebrows. He raises the book, “the Cynic Philosophers”.

Alfred drops himself to the floor where Ollie sits, Ollie so very much taller than him, so much so that when he tells Alfred to sit closer, he strains his neck looking at him.

With the soft orange light bouncing off Ollie’s cheekbones, Alfred feels something deep within his soul shift infinitesimally, flickers of firelight in Ollie’s eyes when he looks at Alfred.

A heavy silence reigns for a few moments before Ollie looks down at the book in his lap, his hand creeping over to rest ever so gently on Alfred’s knee.

“I take it you’ve been studying the Greeks?” Ollie asks.

Alfred nods without thought. “We just started Alexander the Great.”

“The Cynics have much to discuss regarding him,” Ollie responds with a raising of his book. The light in Alfred’s eyes spurs him on. “What do you know of Hephaestion?”

“Alexander’s closest friend. They were practically brothers.”

“Brothers? Here, Diodorus says that whilst Craterus was “king-loving”, Hephaestion was “Alexander-loving.”

Alfred looks at him in confusion. “I care for my brothers deeply.”

Ollie chuckles briefly, putting the book down before twisting to face Alfred, hand sliding over to rest on the innermost part of his knee. “Ah, but Diogenes says that Alexander was ruled by Hephaestion’s thighs.”

Alfred blinks for a few seconds before it suddenly hits him, what Ollie means. Time feels very still and Alfred’s heart pounds heavily in his ears, swallowing dryly when Ollie moves forward very slightly, Alfred stuck between ripping away from Ollie and surging forward.

In the end, Alfred does nothing. Ollie pulls away abruptly and Alfred breathes heavily, his chest rising and falling as if he had ridden a horse for hours, not sitting in a quiet library for less than the half-stroke of a clock. Ollie mumbles some half-hearted excuse before practically running away.

From the corner of his eye, Alfred makes out a shadow peeping through the bookshelves and he puts two and two together.

Ollie never did return to  _their_  corner of the library.

 

* * *

 

_**"Like Hephaestion, who died, Alexander's lover."** _

_**\- Mystery of Love, Sufjan Stevens** _

 

Drummond doesn’t  _hate_  studying at Oxford. True, it is cold and cramped but if there is one thing he has learnt since his admission as of a week ago, it is that an untitled young man from a Scottish family is surrounded by the sons of dukes and marquesses wherever he may be in the university. He counts himself lucky that without any immediate friends at the start of the year, he is assigned a mentor in the form of an older student, a twenty-one-year-old whose name he’s never told but that he picked up to be James Haddington.

James points out the colleges and the libraries but apart from brief exchanges, they barely talk, Drummond even more nervous than he was beforehand and James clearly thinking Drummond to be beneath the son of an earl. Down a dimly lit corridor, James walks on ahead without stopping, presuming the eighteen-year-old to be following him.

With the walls covered in framed paintings, Drummond can’t help but be drawn to them, one catching his eye in particular. His mother adores art and it was the one love she instilled in her sons, Edward taking to it more readily than Charles the Younger, Berkeley or Arthur.

 

 

Hephaestion sits by a desk, Olympia’s letter in his hands, turned to face Alexander, the greatest general in the world. The almost deity Alexander entrusts such political secrets to Hephaestion - Drummond wonders if such a thing would happen now, the King entrusting Wellington with the knowledge of Gods.

James notices the lack of footfall behind him and sees Drummond stand there enraptured before James saunters back.

“You have a passion for the arts?”

“Yes, very much so. This is Alexander and Hephaestion by a man called Louis Gauffier. French, I believe, though I cannot comprehend why it is here.”

“It’ll be those damned Papists. Ruining our institutions with paintings of  _mollies_.” James spits in anger and Drummond blinks for a few seconds before it suddenly hits him, what James means.

Time feels very still and Drummond’s heart pounds heavily in his ears, swallowing dryly when James moves away from Gauffier’s painting. Drummond could not tear his eyes away, stuck between following James who continues to talk of Papists and the degeneration of man, or standing allegiant with Alexander and Hephaestion. He holds no authority here, for how could the son of a commoner do so when faced with an aristocrat?

In the end, Drummond does nothing. James walks away, clearly tired with Drummond and not looking behind him for his presence. His breath feels stricken within his lungs and he makes a silent resolution.

Drummond makes the effort to never come across James again.


	2. 1838

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very short chapter I had written already, the third chapter will be far longer since that one will be 1841 
> 
> Alfred is 22 at this point and although Drummond doesn’t make an appearance, he’s 26

“I had no idea Russians were so handsome.” 

Victoria Regina dances with the Tsesarevich and Lord Alfred Paget stands to the side of the ballroom with his closest friend, the Duchess of Sutherland, watching such greedy hands slip further and further down Victoria’s back. Harriet gasps in shock - “the poor Queen!” - and the Prime Minister dispatches Alfred in an attempt to eschew the young Queen’s delicate sensibilities of Alexander. 

Since Alexander presented himself to the English court, Alfred finds his eyes wandering from the society ladies to the Grand Duke. Of course, he is a strong and hardy man, so very interesting in ways Alfred himself isn’t. He’d rather he’d make a better impression of himself rather than of some lackey compelling the Russian heir away from Victoria.

Eventually after Alexander curses him out and a few dances, Alfred stands away from the main crowd, a glass of champagne in his hand. The Queen makes a spectacle of herself and Lord Melbourne leads her away, a palpable void in the room that Alfred attempts to wash away with the sparkling liquid in his flute. 

“I apologise most profusely for the actions of his Imperial Highness,” a voice with lilting rolls says to his side, Alfred turning around to see one of the Grand Duke’s men to stand by his side, a little taller than Alfred himself. 

“A mere misunderstanding. I’m sure the Queen appreciates the attention of another so close to the throne,” he smoothes over quickly. 

“Of course, of course. The English and the Russian courts are so different. I think perhaps his Imperial Highness forgot we do not treat women like that. They should be worshipped. And,” the Russian leans closer towards Alfred, “so should men. Even if they are English.”

Alfred’s eyes widen when he notices the Russian’s eyes wander up and down his body with intent, Alfred’s earlier comments and covert looks apparently as clear as day, his midnight fantasies becoming a nightmare he wants to escape.

“I- I-”

He’s saved by the reappearance of Victoria, whose presence reignites the flow of conversation in the ballroom and Alexander emerges to order his subordinate a short, clipped command in their native language. 

The Russian turns back to Alfred before leaving. 

“My apologies. But his Imperial Highness is tired from such a long journey and would like to retire. Perhaps you could direct me to my bedchamber?” He hints flirtatiously with a raise of an eyebrow. 

And then he’s gone and Alfred finishes off more flutes of champagne that night than he cares to count, cursing his careless and wandering eyes. 

That isn’t to say that in the small hours, when Alfred falls into his bed, he doesn’t picture a certain face before his eyes droop heavily, slumber calling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should make it a thing at the end of each chapter with historical stuff I came across for research 
> 
> \- whilst Alexander’s father enacted a law potentially banning all gay behaviour, it was mostly interpreted to only refer to anal sex between men, everything else essentially accepted. Being queer in Russia at that point was somewhat contradictory; the Orthodox Church had considerable influence in this area but there were also quite a few public figures who were openly queer, especially if there was a positive relationship with the Romanovs
> 
> Next chapter will be the start of using the season two material and Drummond will be properly introduced. It’ll be a meet cute and I can’t wait for people to read it - some parts need some editing tho and I’m back at uni with a lot of work being piled on me but I’m hoping to keep this somewhat regular!


	3. 1841

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally another chapter! Apologies for the delays, real life shit happened which I’ll elaborate in the end notes 
> 
> Because Daisy completely fucked over the show’s timeline, it’s been hard work making any sense. So this chapter encompasses:  
> \- the entirety of 2x01 and 2x02 (1841-1842)  
> \- the Plantagenet ball (1842)  
> \- the birth of Bertie (1841)  
> \- the death of Dash (1840)  
> \- the death of Albert and Ernest’s father (1844)  
> \- the fire place scene in 2x04
> 
> For age references, Alfred is 25 and Drummond is 29
> 
> Quick note for upcoming chapters: I, in no way, approve of the language that these characters use. It is merely for period appropriate speech and attitudes

_**"Oh, my God, I feel it in the air** _  
_**Telephone wires above are sizzling like a snare** _  
_**Honey, I'm on fire, I feel it everywhere** _  
_**Nothing scares me anymore."**_

_**\- Summertime Sadness, Lana Del Ray** _

 

Alfred’s a courtier, a good one, even if he doesn’t always enjoy every aspect of it. Of course the balls and the daily gossip make his days at least somewhat interesting but there’s also much he isn’t fond of. Like the constant waiting, when the Queen visits her first Prime Minister and he is stuck outside with Lady Portman, the two of them sharing whiskey from a flask he carries everywhere, always being aware of saying what is expected and not what one’s mind truly believed.

Henry, the family patriarch, and Lord Melbourne himself oft told Alfred that a Paget was found in three places: in the army, in the House or in the palace. Like the good son he was, Alfred was a member of all three but despite all of this, he wondered what life might have been like if he wasn’t a Paget.

And then one day, Alfred thanked the Lord Above for his father’s expectations of a Paget’s rightful place.

Alfred met Edward Drummond in 1841, the man being the Private Secretary to the new Prime Minister and since Robert Peel was practically at the palace every day, Alfred often came across Drummond, but never having a proper conversation. Drummond was a handsome enough man, a odd kind of roguish good looks and a sweet naïveté that grew on his face whenever Victoria made some offhand comment that wasn’t immediately offensive to Peel’s government. Victoria frequently requested Alfred’s presence and so the two were often standing opposite each other whilst the Queen and the Prime Minister locked heads.

It had been a long day, such a meeting being one of tense conversation about the mess in Afghanistan. Ever since the birth of the Princess Royal, the court had never been quite the same and Alfred hated the dismal aura of Buckingham Palace, even more so since Harriet had left. Since her departure, Dash had so often been placed in his care, more so since Victoria threw herself back into the arduous task of sorting through her boxes.

Dash followed at his feet as they wandered down a corridor, neither of them paying great attention to anything until Dash suddenly ran away from Alfred, barking loudly. Alfred took chase, losing sight briefly of the Queen’s beloved dog until he rounded the corner, nearly running into a wall before seeing Dash on his back, a man down on one knee to stroke the dog’s belly, Dash panting in delight.

Alfred stopped, not wanting to break up such a scene of happiness until the figure looked up.

“Ah, Mr Drummond, what a pleasant surprise,” Alfred said, kneeling down to scoop Dash into his arms.

“Is this your dog?” Drummond asked, stepping forward to scratch Dash around the jaw and smiling fondly, stood far closer to Alfred than any man normally would. His smile was almost bright enough for Alfred to forget to answer.

“No, no, Dash belongs to her Majesty. I’m surprised he likes you, he doesn’t take well to strangers and once he starts barking, well, he’ll never stop.” Dash continued to relax further into Alfred’s hold where Drummond stood close, still scratching now around Dash’s ears and it had been a long time since Alfred saw someone smile truthfully. “Perhaps you grew up with dogs?”

Drummond finally looked up at Alfred. “You’re quite observant, Lord Alfred. I have a Newfoundland back home. Yourself?”

“A Golden Retriever. And where is home for you?”

“Scotland.” Alfred’s face must have shown his confusion and Drummond looked down again, smiling at Dash. “I know. I’ve lived in London for such a long time I’ve forgotten what is like to be home.”

Drummond looked up quickly, as if he said too much already. “I ought to return to the Prime Minister. Good day, Lord Alfred.”

And then he leaned down to stroke the dog’s head and smiling in an innocent manner. “Good day, Dash.” He left Alfred and Dash behind whilst carrying his papers and when Alfred could no longer hear Drummond’s footsteps, he brought Dash closer to his face.

“He seems like a personable gentleman.”

Dash, like all other dogs, merely barked in response.

 

* * *

 

The next time he sees Drummond - that brief occurance in the doorframe didn’t count to Alfred - it’s at another meeting, this time with Prince Albert walking in slightly late. Victoria speaks of soirées for scientists and when Drummond responds to the Queen but look straight at him, Alfred was sure that Dash in his arms would be able to feel his rapidly fluttering heart.

“With pleasure, ma’am.”

Alfred had been in the army. Although no one would dare speak of it, he knew that look from the barracks to Buckingham Palace - a man who hungered for something other than food. If not for the “ma’am” tacked on at the end of his sentence, Alfred could almost imagine Drummond’s declaration was for him. Ever since their paths first crossed, there was something about Drummond that kept him awake some nights, when even cigars and brandy cannot encourage Morpheus’ gift. He would lie in his bed, Buckingham Palace more often his home than the house he owns on Grosvenor Place. In the dead of the night, he finds the thoughts suppressed during the day rear dreadfully, like the colts he rode as a child. If he was a good man, he would merely sleep and dream of a pretty young woman whom he’d lie with and further the Paget line. Instead, his restless thoughts drift towards a certain man, his mind replaying conversations over and over again, his mind’s eye remembering the arch of an eyebrow, the depth of an eye’s colour, the very colour of his lips.

 

* * *

 

The night of the soirée, Alfred feels _ready_ for the Palace to be alive again, conversation and something to break up the tension that haunts every room. Upon loitering around whilst guests continue to arrive, Drummond walks past Alfred hurriedly, nearly tripping over his own feet until Alfred strides over and catches up with him, their paces slowly equalising.

“Why such a rush, if I may ask?”

“I’ve been entrusted with the guest list for tonight and...”, Drummond slows down and leans in slightly to keep their conversation private,” “I find I cannot match a face to all of the names.”

Alfred smiles widely. “Then God has smiled upon you. You forget you have a Paget in your midst. Do you have a list?”

Drummond produces a sheet of foolscap from his inner pocket and hands it over, Alfred’s eyes skimming over each black indent written into the paper until a sudden silence descends through the corridor, Queen and Duke perfectly poised to greet their guests. Alfred and Drummond move to walk a reasonable distance behind the two, Drummond silently stressing.

“You think my list was appropriate?”

“I think you ought to calm yourself. Her Majesty trusted you, did she not? She trusts you as so far to plan this,” and at this point, Alfred gestures to the crowd of people lining the walls of the corridor, “and I think you’ve done a splendid job.”

Drummond smiles at Alfred gratefully until Victoria and Albert stop once more and Drummond’s face drops as he recognises the newest guest.

“ _Lord Melbourne_? He wasn’t on my list.”

Alfred sees his old friend, not entirely surprised that the Prince’s back is ramrod straight when Melbourne leans down to kiss Victoria’s hand.

“Her Majesty is fond of her first Prime Minister.” He steps closer to whisper in Drummond’s ear. “However, his Royal Highness isn’t. Perhaps he’s needed elsewhere?” Alfred raises his eyebrows, Drummond looking down at him and understanding the unsaid message, leaving Alfred to watch him walk away, Albert following Drummond to the ballroom.

 

* * *

 

After Othello’s monologue, Alfred finds himself with the Queen as she compliments Ira Aldridge’s performance and is struck by a marvellous idea.

“Mr Aldridge, if I may present a dear friend of mine?”

Drummond stands in some quiet corner watching the events with unfocused eyes until Alfred appears in his line of vision, a polite smile on both their lips.

“Drummond, didn’t you think Mr Aldridge’s performance spectacular?”

“Quite. I’ve always found the story of Othello fascinating. Although I must confess I always preferred Iago over the Moor.”

Alfred looks at Drummond with a curious expression until Aldridge excuses himself to parch his thirst.

“Iago? Now why would you prefer him?”

Drummond takes a sip of his champagne, looking out to the ballroom whilst sighing. “I suppose I find myself in him. Wanting something he can’t have.” He clears his throat and changes the subject. “You said the Queen was fond of Lord Melbourne earlier?”

Alfred looks to where Drummond places his eyes, Victoria and Melbourne sharing a private conversation in the middle of the room. He knows that blurred relationship between the Queen and the former Prime Minister is one not easily understood but part of him wants to share such intimate knowledge with Drummond, the champagne making him feel somewhat out of sorts.

“Yes, they’re quite close. I became rather busy when he was still the Premier, what with the two riding out so often. She was quite upset when your party came into power,” Alfred says carelessly, relieved when Drummond merely chuckles.

“Perhaps her Majesty too was like Iago.”

Alfred’s eyebrows furrow and Drummond deems to look at him with an odd expression that neither can quite place.

“Wanting something she can’t have.”

And Alfred feels brave, spurred on by the alcoholic bubbles that seem to flow in his veins and his eyes fall to Drummond’s lips before dragging them up again. “Don’t we all.”

Praise the Heavens above, Drummond doesn’t recoil in disgust. Rather he raises his flute, Alfred mirroring him and they clink glasses, sharing secret smiles until Peel comes over, the night wearing long and dark, Drummond leaving with him.

Alfred drains his flute and champagne had never tasted so sweet.

 

* * *

 

When Alfred finds that Morpheus is to evade him yet another night when something hot and heavy pools in his gut, he pushes the various blankets off of him and sinks to his knees by bedside and he feels like a child again. His hands clasp together as he begs God twicefold, once a plea for sleep to eventually come and another simultaneously cursing and thanking him for the man who has stolen into Alfred’s affections without his consent.

He hates himself for the need creeping up through him and it always returns at the worst times. He curls back into his bed and remembers their conversation earlier that night.

_“Is the Queen around? I have some papers for her from the Prime Minister.” Drummond asked._

_Alfred was bone tired, the entire court walking on eggshells and of course he couldn’t light his cheroot, playing it off and saying, “yes, she is. It’s been a very trying day,” whilst holding his unlit cheroot up before turning away._

_Drummond put his papers down and reached into his pockets, stooping just slightly so that he and Alfred were the same height and procuring a metal box. “This might help,” he explained before sweeping something down the side of it, a small flame roaring._

_Alfred simply looked down, the day suddenly having drained him and without his mind’s permission, his mouth opened._

_“How well equipped you are.”_

_Drummond merely looked up and smirked, his comment not brushed away and Alfred lit his cheroot, breathing in the smoke deeply._

_“I never go anywhere without my tinderbox.”_

_And Alfred feels a shot of electricity pass through his body, the words between Drummond’s and his lines read easily like a Shakespearean play._

Alfred would feel more guilty if his skin didn’t tingle so pleasantly at the memory.

 

* * *

 

“I wonder, ma'am, if I might make a suggestion. As the leader of fashionable society, if you were to make it known that you will only wear Spitalfields silk...”

“Indeed, ma'am. If you were to preside at an occasion at which all the guests were required to wear it, well, that, I believe, would bring the matter to the public's attention as nothing else could.”

They make quite the team.

When the silkweavers inform Victoria of their problems, Alfred and Drummond devise a plan, as if they share one mind and all thoughts, Peel and Albert’s hesitations overruled by the clever Queen outwitting them both. At the end of that meeting, Drummond holds back when Peel goes to leave, catching Alfred’s eyes who gravitates towards him whilst Victoria and Albert start discussing their own costumes before leaving.

“Well, Drummond. You are quite a force to be reckoned with.”

“It wouldn’t have worked with your input, Lord Alfred.”

They simply smile at each other, no words needed but for the gratitude in each other’s eyes.

 

* * *

 

The Spitalfield silk weavers work diligently to complete all their orders, the entirety of high society demanding a new, original costume in time for the ball, James Robinson Planché inundated with requests for costume guidance. Alfred initially doesn’t know who he wants to go as, reading old history books about the Plantagenets, seeing as Queen and Consort have decided upon Edward III and Philippa.

He reads and reads and yet he cannot find any inspiration, slowly growing more and more frustrated until he reads the chapter before that of Edward III. His father, Edward II, seems infinitely more interesting and with just one sentence, he has an idea, albeit not for his costume.

 

* * *

 

Bascombe and his son set up a minute tailor shop in a disused room in Buckingham Palace, Lords and Ladies taking their turns to be measured and for the silk weavers to perform modern miracles. As the younger son of a Marquess, Alfred waits for the Dukes and Duchesses to be measured first, keeping up conversations with other members of the court.

Eventually he is measured, a short affair, and Bascombe hands him a draft costume already made up to see if it fits, Alfred instructed to try it in the small room opposite their little tailor room.

Without knocking on the door, Alfred simply opens it without thinking and thanks God for answering his latent prayers.

Drummond stands there, pulling an undershirt off, his torso stretched upwards with the effort of it, his trousers riding low on the dimples of his hips. And Alfred can’t look away, his eyes sweeping down the chiselled planes of Drummond’s chest, neither of them moving until Alfred remembers where he is.

“My apologies,” he says insincerely and backs out of the door frame, closing the door behind him and leaping for joy in his mind, such a memory to never be forgotten.

He raises his voice slightly so that Drummond can hear him. “Please forgive me. I was unaware the room was occupied.”

“Fear not, Lord Alfred. It was my fault for not leaving quicker.”

_Thank God you didn’t leave quicker._

“Have you decided upon your costume yet?”

And at this point, Alfred looks down the corridor for any lingering servants or walls with ears and lowers his voice, just enough so that Drummond can hear his answer. “Unfortunately not. The Queen and the Prince are lucky to find such inspiration so quickly. I did read about Edward II however. How very different to his pious son.”

“Quite.”

“I was surprised too, to read of Piers Gaveston. For a favourite of a King, to wield such _power_. Fascinating, hm?”

The door opens and Drummond stands there dressed again in his usual dark colours, skin unfortunately covered. Drummond simply stares at Alfred, his brow furrowed as if trying to understand a particularly difficult puzzle.

“Fascinating.”

And so Drummond leaves with his costume in his hands, Alfred suddenly filled with bravery at such a conversation.

Drummond surely must have had to have known what Alfred meant.

 _Surely_.

 

* * *

 

The ball itself is magnificent, the most spectacular of all foods laid out for all, the music light hearted enough to allow dancing without hesitation. When Alfred and Drummond arrive, they find their costumes similar yet with subtle differences - Alfred having offhandedly remarking to Bascombe that he found the costume of the man before him to his liking. Both migrate to the middle of the ballroom where dancing partners align with each other and whilst they both hold beautiful women in their arms, neither can spend more than a few moments not looking at each other, eyes drawn to the man beside him.

Alfred loves any kind of celebration or party and to be surrounded by merriment is his own personal heaven, only tainted by the apparent disappearance of Drummond after the dance finishes, glad that Harriet’s predicament with the eldest Coburg distracts his friends from Alfred’s eyes looking for a certain someone.

He finds Drummond away from the hub of the ball, gazing intently at a painting of a former Countess of Bedford. With champagne-loose lips, he quotes, “o, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, alone and palely loitering?”, bouncing his helmet between hands. Drummond smirks whilst looking down until Alfred continues. “Why aren’t you in there, delighting the damsels?”

It’s a loaded question that Alfred asks and Drummond must answer. He hedges his bets and prays that delightful giddiness he feels around Alfred isn’t just a figment of his imagination.

“I don’t know, Lord Alfred. Why aren’t you?”

Alfred doesn’t answer but quirks his mouth as if sharing a secret and Drummond’s eyes follow him as Alfred returns to the ball.

 

* * *

 

After the birth of little Prince Albert, the palace becomes even more of a place of misery, the Queen in low spirits and Albert’s father dead. Alfred hates wearing black, hates the lack of laughter and happiness, his days only eased by the occasional presence of Drummond who spends more time coaxing the Queen into her duties than he does talking to Alfred.

Tis truly a rare occasion when Drummond stands on the balcony that Alfred has started to call “theirs” if such a label can be given. At least with him, Alfred can be frank, talking only briefly of the recent bereavement and the dark cloud that continues to haunt the Court.

Ever since the ball, Alfred’s felt braver and brave and he risks a gamble, commenting that neither he nor Drummond could understand the fairer sex in ways _other_ men could, Drummond saying nothing but smiling and looking at Alfred from under his eyelashes.

That spark ignites again like Drummond’s tinderbox.

 

* * *

 

Lady Emma Portman catches Alfred shortly his conversation with Drummond, the Queen distracted by Albert’s departure and the two stand to the side of the silent corridor.

“I’m sure you know of poor Dash?” Emma asks.

Alfred nods gravely. Although Dash was not his, he had become accustomed to the sweet spaniel over the past years and the loss of the Queen’s companion was tremendous.

“I thought perhaps it would be useful to surround her Majesty with dogs whilst his Royal Highness is in Coburg. I believe it would lighten her spirits.”

Emma is called away by a footman’s message whisking her away back to the Queen but Alfred wanders outside, slowly collating which members of the Court own dogs until he remembers a conversation that seemed to be years ago.

_“You’re quite observant, Lord Alfred. I have a Newfoundland back home.”_

And thus his plan was set in motion.

_“Mr. Drummond,_

_Please come to the Palace at your earliest convenience. I find myself in need of your assistance._

_Yours,  
Alfred Paget”_

 

* * *

He plays the piano whilst waiting for either Drummond’s presence or a response claiming himself too busy. Rather than waste useless energy on worrying, Alfred merely enjoys the melodies by himself with no one to distract him. In fact he would’ve continued playing even if the world crashed around him, if it wasn’t for a creak of the floorboard that snaps him out of his daydream.

Looking up in the mirror on the opposite wall, Alfred sees Drummond stand in the doorframe, watching him play the piano as if he were transfixed. He doesn’t know what compels him to do so but he continues to play, waiting for Drummond to come back to his senses. Another creak of the floorboard and Alfred stops, pretending to be surprising when Drummond walks over to him.

“I received your message.”

“Yes, yes, thank you for coming.” Alfred continues to sit and even with the piano being on a raised platform, Drummond still towers over him. “I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you.”

“Not at all,” Drummond says far too smoothly for it to be the truth. “May I?” He asks, gesturing to a nearby chair. Alfred sees an opportunity and grabs at it.

“Nonsense. Sit with me,” and Alfred shuffles over to make room for another. With simply a moment’s hesitation, Drummond steps forward and flicks his coat tails out of the way before he sits shoulder to shoulder with Alfred whose fingers dance up the keys in a C sharp scale.

“I trust I wasn’t compelled here for a piano recital?” Drummond jokes, Alfred chuckling in good nature.

“Why, for whom else would I perform!”

Alfred’s hands rest in his lap and he turns slightly, the very crest of his head only reaching Drummond’s jawline. “Lady Portman believes it might be beneficial to surround her Majesty with dogs whilst the Prince is in Coburg.”

“An excellent notion. Do you require assistance in organising in such an event?”

“I wondered if you could bring your dog tomorrow. I intend to bring mine and Eos remains at the palace. I hope that would be sufficient enough to lighten her spirits.”

Drummond smiles widely, eyes shining with excitement until he remembers where he is and he clears his throat, face once more composed and stands from the piano stool. “I will fetch her from my parents promptly. Good day, Lord Alfred.”

 

* * *

 

The following morning, Alfred waits outside, Diver patiently at his feet. She’s an older girl, perhaps more sedate than she was when both Alfred and her were younger. Alfred oft finds that his best friend is Diver, calling her Mrs Bumps when there’s no one else around and he can talk to her like a mother does a baby.

He consults his pocket watch.

Half past eleven.

Peel and Drummond had already called upon the palace early in the morning and had left nigh on an hour ago, Drummond leaving behind a message with a servant that he wouldn’t be long with his dog accompanying him.

Diver starts getting bored, shifting around ever so slightly and Alfred looks around and finds no witnesses when he bends down to scratch behind Diver’s ears and talk nonsense. Diver barks once, Alfred ready to reproach her until he sees her target, a small carriage coming down the path. Diver rises from her haunches and her tail wags happily, the carriage coming to a stop in front of Alfred. The door opens and out bursts Drummond, looking rather worse for wear.

“My sincere apologies, Lord Alfred. Today has been quite exhausti-!”

A large and fluffy dog bounds out of the carriage, someone even larger than Diver, and attempts to jump up at Alfred in his immaculate uniform before Drummond seizes control of the leash and pulls his dog back.

“Jupiter! Behave.” He crouches down and lowers his voice. “We discussed this, remember?” When he looks up, Alfred smiles down on him, the golden retriever sitting calmly at his heel.

“I assure you he is not always this excited.”

“Drummond, Jupiter. This is Diver.”

The two dogs start circling each other, gold and black fur intermingling and when Diver gets a bit too confident, she nips at Jupiter.

Alfred whistles sharply and orders, “heel!” Diver does as she’s told whilst Jupiter pulls on her leash, Drummond struggling to keep control of the Newfoundland. Eventually Jupiter pulls harder than Drummond accounted for and the leash is yanked from his grip, running after his dog whilst Alfred can barely keep standing, his loud laughs racking his entire body.

Drummond continues to run after Jupiter and Alfred can’t help but feel bad for the poor man, eventually taking pity on him and placing his fingers in his mouth, a shrill whistle emitting that works a miracle, Jupiter already running back to Alfred whilst Drummond chases him once more.

“How did you do that?” He asks breathlessly, panting as heavily as his dog.

Alfred crouches down to scratch both Diver and Jupiter’s fur and shrugs, such a childlike gesture.

“Magic, I suppose.”

From his position, Drummond looks even taller, a healthy sheen across his face and a few errant chestnut curls drooping over his forehead. But the spell is broken when Jupiter licks Alfred’s face and then it is Drummond’s turn to laugh with his entire body.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, Drummond and Alfred sit by a roaring fire in a sitting room he knew was unlikely to be occupied. Whilst Drummond is still relatively new to the palace, Alfred knows all of its secrets, the rooms with few visitors and the best brandy. The two sip politely at the finest brandy Victoria’s become attached to, words not needed between the two.

Alfred doesn’t know what they are, why they’re always so inexplicably drawn to each other in each room. The two of them being part of the Queen’s counsel, there’s little leeway for him to talk out of turn to Drummond so they’ve learnt how to hold conversations with merely a look, a raised eyebrow, the tilt of a head. The silence is only broken when Alfred deigns to speak, if anything to keep up appearances, the walls having ears so to speak.

“Such a shame no one wanted to join us,” he comments offhand as if he hadn’t orchestrated everything so that he could finally be alone with Drummond for more than a breath of cigar smoke. Drummond, it appears, goes along with Alfred’s train of thought, as if he knows exactly what goes on in his mind.

“What _are_ we going to talk about?”

Alfred responds with simply a raise of his eyebrows and the two of them lean forward to sip again at the heady brandy coursing through their shared veins. It’s almost perfect how Alfred can pretend that Drummond knows exactly what he means, that slow warmth making his skin feel too tight for such passions to burn until Wilhelmina walks in.

Alfred stands up immediately in the presence of a woman, his old governess in his mind’s eye cuffing him by the ear at any perceived lack of manners or etiquette. Drummond follows slightly more slowly, Alfred wondering if it is merely the late hour or an unwillingness to stop their conversation for its cause. Like the gentleman he is, he offers Wilhelmina a seat and a conversation he’d much rather not have, Drummond standing over by the decanter with his face almost unreadable if it wasn’t for the barely noticeable tension in his jaw that Alfred tries to drown out in the rest of his brandy.

When he finally leaves the palace with plans to visit some siblings the next day, Wilhelmina’s mindless chatter left just for him when Drummond takes his leave, Alfred feels in his bones that he won’t sleep tonight, a restless energy shaking his very core, as if his skin would split without an outlet. He remembers such a feeling from the first few days after he met Drummond and sighs heavily, turning to walk in the opposite direction of his London residence, towards the house of ill repute that seemed to be the most fashionable of them all, Ma Fletcher’s nunnery.

On the walk there, he encounters few people, the occasional staggering drunkard and haggard women standing in the shadows. He walks faster, cursing the lateness of the hour and the darkness it brings until he reaches his destination and knocks quickly, his call answered equally rapidly when the door opens and he is ushered in, the esteemed madam of the place holding him by the arm with the air of an old friend.

“Well, if it isn’t my favourite client! I’ve haven’t seen your face for months now.” Ma Fletcher comments. He merely makes a non-committal noise and brings his stovepipe hat down and into his hands, following the madam down the corridor where he knows gaggles of women with heaving bosoms and painted faces wait for whatever his desire is.

Ma Fletcher continues to talk, Alfred’s attention caught by the heavy moans and whimpers slipping out of an ajar door where he stops and with the little light available, matches such low noises to the bodies present, his eyes drawn to the forms there on the bed, too muscular and linear to be that of a man and a whore, and when his eyes drift even further to where the two are joined, his breath hitches. He stands stock still when the man lying on his back like a common woman opens his eyes and looks at Alfred in the eye, moaning loudly when his body is jarred further up the bed and Alfred can’t look away, not until Ma Fletcher turns around and sees her current client is no longer following her. She backtracks to him and simply coughs to get Alfred’s attention.

“One of them, are you?”

Alfred spins around with his mouth open in defiance as if to berate the madam but she has heard far worse from cruder mouths.

“It’s all the same to me. Just another quint to bury your bag of tricks in. It don’t matter to me whether you’re a poof or not, so long as I get some of your generous allowance, if you don’t mind me saying, sir.”

“I am not,” Alfred leans in to hiss, “one of them!”

“Really?” Ma Fletcher retorts. “‘Cause I reckon it’ll shrivel up soon as one of those chauvering molls lifts up her skirts, I’ve done and seen that before.”

He doesn’t respond to that, unwilling to give her any more evidence and Ma Fletcher, the short and stout women she is, leans up to pat him on the shoulder again. “It’s alright if you can’t be joined like those two there,” she says, jabbing her thumb over her shoulder towards the ever increasing moans. “But Achilles and Patroclus here love an audience.”

Alfred nearly chokes on his tongue, “Achilles and Patroclus?”, he asks incredulously, his Ancient Greek lessons never covering such topics.

“Aye. The men here use an alias and I’m sure they’d love all of Greece to watch them.”

She leaves him standing outside that door, stuck in front of two men when he could have any choice of whore in the parlour but the man on his back sees his captive audience still there and performs as well as La Taglioni, throwing his head back and and breathing heavy and high pitched until he seizes up and his mouth drops wide open in a wanton moan, the other man pushing into him until he too stills.

The two men look through the crack between the door and the frame and see Alfred standing there with cheeks flushed bright, lips parted and a stiffness in his trousers before he flees.

Ma Fletcher returns and Achilles and Patroclus share a look of bemusement whilst cleaning the sticky mess.

“Mark my words. He’ll be back.”

 

* * *

 

Alfred runs back to his residence as soon as he can, slamming the door to his chambers as he frantically rips his clothes off, blood throbbing through his core as his mind replays the scene he just saw, that restless energy growing stronger and stronger until he has to reach down and squeeze to give any semblance of relief but instead his desire just grows more and more and even as prayers and hymns rush through his thoughts, his skilled hands play as if he was a piano and a litany of Lord’s prayers is overcome by a white pleasure that as soon as it disappears, a cold hatred replaces the vibrant blood that coursed through him just seconds ago.

He hates himself.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much research went into this jfc. The timeline is difficult to work with but I have both the companion books and bought a biography of Victoria by Dr Macaulay which is proving quite useful (the fact the copy I have is actually from 1887 is something that continues to astound me considering I literally paid £7 for it), the things below are just the points that I remember 
> 
> \- Piers Gaveston. Read about him bc it is a fucking ride  
> \- Alfred’s dog was technically a Golden Retriever/Newfoundland mix but by the time I found that out I already made their dogs in Sims 4 as a Golden Retriever and a Newfie respectively so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> If you have any questions about the research, hmu! Definitely read about Piers Gaveston, I can’t believe how queer history is 
> 
> The aforementioned real life shit:  
> I don’t really talk much about my personal life on here but it is having an impact. I moved away for university last September, going from my home county Kent to a Birmingham university, quite far away from everything I loved and held dear. Being autistic made it difficult but I was coping. I have a history of depression (thank you ancestors for that particular gift /s) and around the start of December last year, those depressive episodes started coming back after about three years in recovery from a very bad point in my life. I won’t go into gory details but there was one day in December I had to remember people said they were looking forward to this fic to stay alive 
> 
> I decided to get help after Christmas, having opened up to support workers at my uni and to my family to some extent. I have online therapy courses, counselling and medication. The latter is the one that’s the most important. Whilst store bought serotonin is far better for my mental health, it has had quite a big impact in something I love. My creativity is rather lacking and there have been large periods of time whereby it is impossible to write, something quite different from my sprees of writing 5k in a night. Thank sertraline for that side effect
> 
> I just want to assure you all I have no intention of abandoning this fic or So Take My Hand. Updates will be slow but these two universes are things that keep me going, so thank you for sticking with me all this time <3


	4. 1842

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll apologise in advance for the angst but hear me out - it makes no sense to go from Alfred ignoring Drummond towards the end of ep4 and then being all buddy-buddy in ep5. Plus timeline shit and making sure this plotline actually has any interesting points to it. I promise they'll make up in the next chapter, I'm certainly looking forward to editing and posting it (no need to guess what'll be happening in 1843) 
> 
> Chapter encompassing:  
> \- end section of 2x04 (somehow simultaneously set in both 1841 and 1844)  
> \- the gap between 2x04 and 2x05

_**"Everything is blue** _  
_**And you're dripping like a saturated sun."**_

_**\- Colors pt. 11, Halsey** _

 

Alfred leaves for the Tory club both he and his father frequent as a matter of course, having not dined with him for a few weeks or so, his day seemingly going well until he notices a familiar figure emerging from the door as he escalates the steps.

“Ah, Drummond.” He calls out, Drummond staring up at him like hunted prey. “I didn’t know you were a member.”

Drummond inhales quickly before responding. “I’m not. I was meeting the Marquis of Lothian.”

Alfred can’t imagine Drummond willingly socialising with the Marquis, his head shaking as he asks disbelievingly, “is he a friend of yours?”

He doesn’t expect the answer that comes. 

“He’s going to be my father-in-law.”

Alfred’s eyes drop and all those years training to be a courteous courtier kick in. “You’re engaged.” His eyes wander before finally looking at Drummond for a brief moment who looks like a man sentenced to his death. “May I offer my... congratulations.”

With just enough politeness not to be rude, he excuses himself to leave Drummond behind, the door opened for him. Some footman takes his stovepipe hat and coat and he’s directed towards where his father sits, a cheroot in his hand and the fireplace roaring. 

“Alfred, my boy, you look unwell! You’ve spent too much time around women, what you need is a gentlemen’s drink.” 

Henry Paget pours his son a glass full of strong whiskey, far larger than he’d receive in Buckingham Palace and Alfred knocks it back, the burn in his throat a welcome respite from Drummond’s words echoing in his mind. 

“Yes, something like that.”

Another drink is poured out and Henry has enough sense about him to know his son isn’t in any mood for conversation, instead filling up the relative silence in the room with mindless chatter and more brandy. 

Alfred realises just how inebriated he is when his head lolls to the side, seeing double of his father when he rambles on about Wyndham’s daughters and how the patriarch would most like a union between his family and the Pagets. 

 

* * *

 

When he returns home, he walks as straight as he can towards his decanters and pours himself too much brandy to calm his racing mind and that restless energy comes rushing back, so much that he has to brace his arms against the cabinet, his fist banging the table when his valet enters the room. 

“I am not to be disturbed!” Alfred shouts, his valet leaving immediately before Alfred drains his tumbler of brandy and throws it on the floor, glass shattering loudly. He isn’t even sure why his behaviour is like so but he suddenly realises a way to forget about his problems just for a few moments. 

 

* * *

 

The cold air sobering him up, he walks back to Ma Fletcher’s nunnery, the cat-like grin on her face when she opens the door to him, not a welcome sight. “I was wondering when we’d see your face again. Aren’t we the lucky ones?” 

The expression on his face must be thunderous enough that he’s let in immediately and when he goes to walk down the corridor to the parlour, Ma Fletcher holds onto his jacket lapels. 

“I know what will make you feel even better.”She ushers him into a different room, one he’s never been in before and finds the man on his back from that night with a small group of other young men. “Patroclus. I trust you know what to do?”

Patroclus simply nods back with a knowing grin and the door is closed behind Alfred in a room filled with beautiful men, all dressed enough that he can look them all in the eye. 

“What is this?”, the question begging itself. Patroclus walks forward, urging Alfred to sit in the only chair in the room, surprisingly more comfortable and furnished than any other room he’s been in when he finally drops into the chair, the men moving closer towards him. He repeats the question and rather than any kind of verbal response, Patroclus drops himself to straddle Alfred’s lap, a hand on Alfred’s jaw. 

“Do you want this?” 

Such a simple question and yet he cannot formulate any words whilst a man sits in his lap, other men watching the performance. 

“I, I think so.” 

Patroclus smiles at that, Alfred just noticing the masculine beauty that he embodies. “Now tell me, sir. You came back here and the people who come back here want someone. Who is it you want?”

Alfred couldn’t respond even if he wanted to and Patroclus sees the hesitation in Alfred’s expression and decides to make it easier for him. 

“Do you want me, hm?” Patroclus has mousy brown curls and green eyes that Alfred can easily call him beautiful but it’s not what he wants.

“What about him?” Patroclus points to a younger boy with silvery blonde hair and bright blue eyes and Alfred finds the boy almost too like himself and shakes his head again, Patroclus moving to another man. 

“Him?’

This man, a man rather than a boy, seemed more like Alfred’s age with more muscle and a stronger jawline, just a wisp of a curl to his dark brown hair and deep brown eyes that with such little light looked almost black. The hitch in Alfred’s breath answers Patroclus’ question and with a single look, all but Alfred, Patroclus and the dark haired man left the room. 

“What happens... what happens now?” A simple enough question, one that Alfred wondered even in the army where all that happened were looks shared over a table in the barracks. 

The brunet moves slightly to grab Patroclus by the arm and rests his hands on Patroclus’ trim waist before leaning down to kiss him hungrily, as if they were putting on a show. The heavier breathing from the chair spur the two on and they perform for him, whimpering and moaning whenever the other does something particularly well like biting onto the other’s lip. When they finally part for breath, they both look towards Alfred, a high blush on his cheeks again and a bulge in his trousers. 

The harlots have been whoring for long enough to know what their client wants even if they themselves don’t know it. The hands on Patroclus’ waist falls and Patroclus leaves to stand behind Alfred in his chair as the other man stalks to stand in front of Alfred before dropping to his knees, Alfred’s legs parting as he breathlessly moans in anticipation. Patroclus’ hands move to curl in Alfred’s hair and to hold him by the shoulders. 

“What should I call you?” Alfred asks of the man on his knees. 

The brunet smiles from where he slowly opens Alfred’s trousers as if he was a present. “You can call me whatever you want,” he answers before swallowing Alfred down.

Alfred bites into a fist to silence his screams, his other hand tangled in the brunet’s hair as he swallows more and more, the heat in the small of his back growing further and further until it feels like it’s about to break and his hand drops from his mouth, whimpering.

“Oh God, please, please Edward don’t sto-“

And his entire world lights up as his breathing stutters and his hand clenches in Edward’s hair and Edward drinks the bitterness in his mouth, his tongue still moving gently until Alfred pushes him away, boneless and finally peaceful. After a few moments, Alfred tucks himself away, ready to thank the two men for their service before Edward grabs at his hand. 

“You do know that this isn’t a permanent solution?”

And the illusion shatters and Alfred is reminded that this man isn’t who he desires, just a harlot who earns his coin from pretending to be someone he isn’t. 

“I know.” Alfred whispers before leaving to pay Ma Fletcher triple his usual fee.

 

* * *

 

In a rather selfish fashion, Alfred punishes Drummond. His presence at the Palace is as minimal as he can garner and he buries himself in his parliamentary work. At least there, he does not have to suffer the atrocity of Drummond standing not three strides away. Instead, they sit on opposite sides of the Commons, Drummond sitting behind Peel whilst Alfred loiters with the other Whig backbenchers, their respective leaders debating fervently.

“And furthermore, the days of Pitt are over! Is it not the duty of the people to contribute to the purse of our great nation? It mightn’t be wartime but the act of running this country continues to be a war of itself!” Peel shouts over the crowd, grasping for any kind of support. Alfred’s paid enough attention to understand whatever the fuss is all about - an income tax, the first in peacetime. Of course, there is opposition, the Whigs barely allowing any semblance of order in Parliament. Alfred looks out casually at the chaos he’s oh so familiar with, Peel standing back to sit down once more, Drummond leaning forward and by chance, they catch each other’s eye. 

Alfred does not look away but instead decides that his fast beating heart ought to be worth something, standing up and being given permission to speak by Abercromby. 

“Mister Speaker, might I remind the Prime Minister that taxation is not the way forward? We are in the midst of economic stagnation and yet the Right Honourable gentleman insists that we take the people’s hard earned monies from them. If I may paraphrase the illustrious Mr Mill, oughtn’t we ‘leave it be’, as the French say? The government has no right to take what is not theirs.” 

Alfred’s eyes flicker over to Drummond who watches him intently, neither looking away.

“Since when was it permissible for politics to interfere with the private lives of civil society!”

The Commons roars again, Melbourne incapable of controlling his party and neither is Peel. In the midst of parliamentary anarchy, Alfred stares at Drummond relentlessly until the message is conveyed. 

How _dare_ reality interfere with what they had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the closest I will ever get to writing smut and unfortunately, this story is going to have a lot of sex so kudos to me for doing that 
> 
> The next chapter will be looooooooot more interesting and pretty much most of the next chapter is me writing the missing scenes that help the story make more sense. Things will get better for our two fave lads 
> 
> Research notes:  
> \- Alfred was a member of White's, a prominent gentlemen's club. Something that took me a while to get my head around, it's a Tory club and Alfred's a Liberal (from my understanding, Alfred couldn't be a Liberal MP at this point bc the party hadn't been formed therefore, for the sake of this fic, he's a Whig until we get to 1859). Turns out his father was a Whig under Grey and then became a Tory under Wellington. Alfred just stayed at the same club as his father. Kinda like how you tend to shop at the same supermarket as your parents, if you get me  
> \- the Wyndhams and their daughters. They'll become important later on but not historically accurate at all  
> \- same-sex brothels were a thing, perhaps not as prolific as hetero brothels  
> \- we really don't see Alfred as a politician in the show which I don't get. He should be with the opposition making that weird noise MPs make, that "EEEEEERARRRRREE" (not particularly relevant but [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CLSq1h7AvkE) explains the context behind that noise and it's also kinda funny)  
> \- semi-related to the above point but Drummond shouldn't be sitting with Peel in the front row, Principal Private Secretaries are supposed to sit behind their assigned minister  
> \- oh JS Mill, how we meet again. I harbour hatred for that man - for my A-Levels, I had to learn about him in politics, philosophy and economics, I was surprised he didn't show up in German too! 
> 
> I update the playlist every so often so [check it out here](https://open.spotify.com/user/gmfl74m3jgf139djku9gf602l/playlist/7c9ApoMqJyKbjU93scAcld?si=RuO5OeYdRrucRzVDMJnYEg)
> 
> If you read my explanation on the last chapter, hopefully you're not too worried lol. In good news, my creativity is slowly coming back and my dosage is being increased so we'll see how things go! Winter is nearly over which always helps and I'm slowly making more friends at uni who truly accept me for who I am. In any case, I've got at least 1843 written with parts of 1844 done but after that it gets quite confusing bc I have to wrangle a lot of history and politics and try make it coherent. I really don't make things easy for myself


	5. 1843

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there readers, it’s me, ya boy. I’m uh standing by your comments, and it’s very encouraging 
> 
> I’m back with a new chapter! It’s taken almost half of my uni year and shit’s been stressful but not in a bad way. I’m off to Paris tomorrow and I wanted to get this out before that and I hope this is satisfactory 
> 
> Thank you so much for all of your wonderful comments, it’s truly amazing that this is something people genuinely look forward to
> 
> I recently got into Shadowhunters (WHICH THEY THEN GO AND FUCKING CANCEL) and these two fan videos really helped with inspiration - [Collide by starksrune](https://instagram.com/p/BhPbSFenZiX/) and Technicolor Beat by malecway which for some reason won’t let me link but here’s the video: https://instagram.com/p/BcQUb7QAM_d/
> 
> Btw smut ahead so if you’re not old enough, don’t read (says the person who always disregarded that rule as a preteen)

 

_**“One hit, bad for me,** _

_**One kiss, bad for me,** _

_**But I give in so easily,** _

_**And ‘no thank you’ is how it should've gone,** _

_**I should stay strong,** _

 

_**But I'm weak, and what's wrong with that?** _

_**Boy, oh boy I love it when I fall for that.”** _

_**\- Weak, AJR** _

 

Alfred passes the Prime Minister and Drummond in the corridor, greeting Peel but entirely ignoring Drummond, as he’s done so successfully for the past year.

Once Alfred walks past, Drummond turns back to watch the stony faced figure continue walking away from him, a cold disappointment in his hands that continued to haunt him since Alfred knew of his engagement. He wants to make amends but he doesn’t know how to, Alfred conveniently disappearing whenever Drummond was present at Buckingham Palace.

And then the Queen decides she must travel to France immediately. Quite frankly, Alfred is glad for the change of scenery - the scenery being Edward Drummond with a _fiancée_.

His plans are dashed when Peel, with good intentions, suggests the presence of Drummond. It’s not like Alfred can say anything, for why would a courtier object to a Private Secretary’s presence.

At least he has a day to prepare for being stuck on Her Majesty’s Yacht with Drummond.

He decides that night to visit Ma Fletcher’s again, not entirely sure of what he wants. Whilst it is usually the madam who answered his knocks, the door swings open and a more masculine figure stands in the doorframe.

“Ah, my good sir!” Patroclus greets him, a blond man behind about to leave before pulling Patroclus back in for a kiss, eventually letting his hands fall from around Patroclus’ waist. “Til next time.”

Achilles leaves and Alfred suddenly feels like an intruder on such a moment, so very aware of what probably happened only a few minutes ago.

“Please, do come in. Ma Fletcher is in her room still counting the coins you so gratefully paid us last time.” He says cheekily. “Right, what will it be tonight sir? I believe Edward is currently preoccupied but the lord upstairs won’t take long and I’m not talking about God.”

The forthright way Patroclus speaks makes him long for his late childhood, time spent at schools with other boys and he almost feels homesick for a home he doesn’t have anymore, mentally noting that throwaway comment about a lord in such a house of ill repute.

‘I don’t think I precisely know what I want.”

“I’m quite sure it isn’t a shag. Come, sit, drink.” Patroclus ushers him into the parlour where Ma Fletcher sits by candlelight, taking her glasses off to look at Alfred following Patroclus.

“I think you might single-handedly pay the rent for this place.”

“He’s not here to spend his load in me or one of the others Ma.” Patroclus explains crudely and Alfred winces, such language unacceptable in front of women. Ma Fletcher was not a society woman. She simply looks at Alfred for a few moments before responding.

“Well he’s not spending it in me,” and Patroclus doubles over in loud laughter, Ma Fletcher swatting the back of his head, “if you keep that up, you’ll wake up him upstairs,” she jabs her thumb above her head, Patroclus slowly composing himself. “Lord Alfred, please take a seat.”

Alfred slips into a chair, Patroclus and Ma Fletcher’s conversation just about audible.

“He’s a Lord?”

“And one who pays the rent so keep him happy.”

Patroclus does keep him happy, a bottle of rough gin shared between the two, the burn down his throat not something the aristocrat was used to. When Ma Fletcher eventually joins the two men, Alfred’s inebriated enough to loosen his posture, his legs spread wider and his head tilting back.

“I can’t fathom why I’m so.. _upset_. Of course he’d be getting married soon but I thought, I hoped I could just pretend for a little bit longer. And now the Marquis will be his bloody father-in-law. I see the Marquis every week and every single time I’ll have to remember that he’s married to his daughter.”

Alfred’s head feels light and heavy at the same time, his vision blurring every time he blinked, leaning forward to reach for the bottle where it suddenly disappears from his sight, Patroclus standing up and holding the bottle from him.

“Ma, he’s absolutely half-shot.”

“I said keep him happy not row him up Salt River! Where’s he gonna go now?”

“I’ll drag him home Ma, I haven’t got anyone planned for.”

And with that, Patroclus hoists Alfred up into his arms and slinging Alfred’s arm around his shoulder. They walk in the dark, back streets and alleyways with barely enough light to cast flickers across their faces.

Alfred still has enough sense about him to try walk in a straight line, Patroclus leading him to Grosvenor Place after asking for his address, leaning Alfred up against the frame of his front door, setting the man straight, the cold night air clearing his brain and making him far more coherent than he was merely half an hour ago.

Patroclus stands back after making sure Alfred wasn’t going to fall, leaning in for just a second to kiss him on the cheek.

“You shouldn’t let this stop you, Lord Alfred. He’ll make you happy, even if it hurts now.”

In his sobering state of mind, Alfred wants to tell Patroclus’ retreating form that he’s far too wise for his years.

 

* * *

  

When Alfred stands on the deck of the ship, breathing in the sea air with salty spray and nursing a horrific headache, he could almost feel at peace if it wasn’t for the creak of the deckboard behind him.

“I suppose smoking won’t be possible at present,” Drummond says with faux casualness and his tinderbox in his hand, leaning against the exposed walls of the yacht next to Alfred.

Alfred doesn’t turn in Drummond’s direction and maintains his gaze on the horizon. It’s maddening how even with a single sentence Alfred wants to _forgive_ for something that isn’t even wrong. Alfred just assumed that Drummond was _his_ and all those little comments meant something. He knows he’s behaving irrationally, Patroclus’ words briefly forgotten and simply mutters, “I don’t care for cheroots,” before leaving for the chambers in the hull of the ship but Drummond grabs his shoulder, jerking him back.

Alfred turns back around, shrugging Drummond’s hand off aggressively.

“Lord Alfred, for once, could you just look me in the eye?”

Alfred looks up and stares Drummond in the eye. “Are you happy now?” Drummond’s hand hovers above Alfred’s shoulder, swaying back and forth with the rhythm of the sea.

“No and you know that. It has been nigh on a year and we’ve barely talked! I thought we were friends.”

Alfred takes a step back in surprise and the words come out choked. “ _Friends_? Friends tell each other the truth! How long did you anticipate hiding your engagement from me? Did the Duchess of Buccleuch know before me? Would you have ever told me if I hadn’t seen you outside White’s!?” He knows he’s being irrational but he also knows that this must happen, grateful that everyone else is inside the hull.

Drummond stares at him melancholically before looking down and barely whispering, “I wanted someone to see me as me.” Alfred says nothing and Drummond continues, his voice only just audible over the crashing waves, as if his response was only for the sea. “Not just the second son of a banker marrying above his station. I thought you would understand that.”

Alfred’s not entirely sure what he’s feeling but he does know that he can’t stay here. “I could have if you just trusted me.” He pushes past Drummond into the hull where his eyes mist over quickly with unshed tears, frantically sniffling before composing himself.

Even in the carriage, he has no respite, Drummond sitting opposite him. The Duchess of Buccleuch continues to complain about everything and anything as she is wont to do and whilst Drummond attempts to reel Alfred into conversation, the cold, haughty air that he puts on hurts.

Alfred just loves people. He loves conversation, jokes, games and everything else that makes for a hearty chuckle and more than that, he loves having Drummond as a partner in crime, someone to have a wordless conversation with. He’s missed the easy camaraderie they used and perhaps if he was a stronger man, he would keep up his relentless ignorance.

He is not a strong man and even when the Duchess rambles on about the French court, he cannot help but smile, catching Drummond’s eye for just a moment. Drummond smiles back and it feels like home, even when he doesn’t want it to be.

 

* * *

 

Like the French are famed for, dinner is an extravagant affair, with practically a mountain of profiteroles placed before Alfred as the guests applaud such culinary skills. Such innocent conversation suddenly becomes laced with want when Alfred realises that this is _France_ , the land of hedonism, where woman paint their faces and fathers share their mistresses with sons. And so, with enough deniability if needed, he speaks to Drummond for the first time over the dining table.

“I’m prepared to be led into temptation. What about you, Drummond?” 

Whatever answer is given, Alfred knows that the two of them will be dragged to hell hand in hand.

 

* * *

 

_**”Now tell me,** _

_**Have we gone too far or did we get too close?”** _

_**\- The Days, Patrick Wolf** _

 

Even the French’s picnics, that of childhood memories at sunlit beaches, are decadent, with foods beyond imagination. Prince Albert is noticeably rattled by such notions and eventually he leaves for the forests with the French prince, Ernest and the two courtiers, only stopping when he comes across a lake and a waterfall, Prince Ferdinand complaining about such uncivilised behaviour. Alfred and Drummond follow, looking at the lake in childish glee.

Drummond talks first through a large grin. “Shall we?

And in a moment of madness, Alfred agrees before Drummond starts stripping and pulling his clothes off, Alfred mimicking him whilst Drummond watches him.

Alfred removes his shirt first and allowing himself a mere look, Drummond’s eyes falling down Alfred’s chest before they run together and jump into the lake like school children in the summer.

When Drummond pushes Alfred under the water, Alfred realised that this is the closest their bodies have ever been, with merely water separating the two and he feels so alive, holding onto Drummond’s shoulder without hesitation or social conventions stopping him. Nerves he didn’t know sparkle with such touch and when they accidentally float too close to each other, Alfred kicks Drummond’s legs to pull him down and he can feel the beginnings of heat low in his stomach like that night at Ma Fletcher’s when their hips slot into each other.

Without thought, he pushes away as quickly as he can before Drummond can feel anything. Thankfully, Albert swims to leave the lake and the cold air works wonders on the slow desire in Alfred’s blood.

 

* * *

 

On the return to London, Alfred feels far more at ease when Drummond sits next to him in the carriage. When conversation about the respectability of the trip emerges, Alfred has to dig his fingernails into his arm to stop laughing when Drummond says, “the trip was stylish but... not altogether respectable.”

Drummond is just glad that the chill of the lake meant Alfred wouldn’t have been able to feel the effects of their roughhousing on himself.

 

* * *

 

When they see each other again, it’s in another corridor of Buckingham Palace, Drummond explaining his papers and the Irish question with little sympathy. Drummond talks of Peel and his policies and Alfred fires back.

“The Irish are starving,” he protests, moving in so that the footmen struggle to hear their conversation.

“Then the Queen should reach into her own purse.”

The crux of their uneasy conversation crescendos when Drummond looks away and states, “women are so _damn_ emotional,” his language loose.

A horrid feeling curls within Alfred and he can’t stop himself from saying, “women like your fiancée?” as if he had any reason to dislike his betrothed, as if Alfred Paget had any claim to Edward Drummond.

Drummond complains briefly about the timing of the wedding and the hurt that Alfred feels must show on his face when Drummond apologises. Alfred looks up at him from under his eyelashes in the way that always garners Drummond’s attention but not this time - he says his farewells and leaves.

Alfred watches him go, his mind pleasantly buzzing despite the nature of their talk.

He called him _Alfred_.

 

* * *

 

After yet another attempt on the Queen, she decides upon taking her leave in Scotland with Peel’s blessing, Drummond yet again sent on behalf of his government. The carriage journey taking far too long from London, Her Majesty’s Yacht is deployed from Woolwich, this time to the north. Victoria, now being with child once more, rests in the inner chambers, as do most of the company, only Drummond and Alfred on the exposed deck on choppy waves.

“I suppose you will enjoy being back home?”

Drummond scoffs and Alfred chuckles at such transparent emotion, their brief tiff all but forgotten. “We wouldn’t be anywhere close to Edinburgh.”

Alfred merely hums and they both look out onto the North Sea, the bobbing of the yacht a strong rocking motion. Drummond reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and Alfred notices a cheroot in his hand before the yacht crashes heavily on a wave and they’re both thrown forward, the cheroot in Drummond’s hand falling into the sea when he goes to grab onto the rail.

The yacht falls back into a more stable motion and Drummond leans over the rail before yelling, “that was my last Tritchie!”

Alfred collapses into hysterics, clutching at his stomach as he slides down the wall of the yacht and sits on the wet deck, Drummond still cursing the Mare Frisicum. Eventually the giggles subside and Drummond looks down on Alfred with a thundery look and yet Alfred says what he thinks.

“Well thank Heavens you can’t light it now. Come now, a Tritchie? The only way you could do worse is if there were to be clouds of vile mundungus vapour.” He puts his hand out for Drummond to hopefully hoist him up, briefly subjected to a withering look before he’s pulled up. He’ll probably regret the wet stains on his trousers but Alfred dismisses that thought when he himself reaches into his pocket and procuring a small metal box.

“I never go anywhere without my cheroot box.”

Drummond looks skyward in a silent prayer for strength before smiling at Alfred and the two light their respective cheroots, hands barely grazing as they both hold onto the rail.

Soon enough, they sail into the Port of Leith and the carriage ride to Blair Castle is long, shared with Ernest and Wilhelmina. Like a good society girl, she offers her congratulations on his engagement, Ernest joking about the English ways and Alfred understands the hesitant compliments Drummond makes about Florence, enough to avoid suspicion but lacking any real affection. Alfred catches Drummond’s eyes when they both smile and part of him could almost forget about Florence Kerr.

 

* * *

 

They all go fishing together, Albert teaching Victoria but when Wilhelmina comments about the sublime scenery, Alfred looking over to where Drummond stands further downstream, his legs spread to keep his balance as he fishes and Alfred remembers the taut tone of Drummond’s body from the French excursion.

“ _Heavenly_.”

 

* * *

 

**_“I know forever don't exist,_ **

**_But after this life, I'll find you in the next,_ **

**_So when I say "forever," it's the goddamn truth,_ **

**_I'll keep finding, finding you.”_ **

**_\- Finding You, Kesha_ **

 

Back in the carriage, suddenly they stop and Alfred and Drummond emerge, the Duke in a state of concern and Drummond takes charge, demanding Alfred’s presence with authority ringing in his voice. Alfred follows him until they come to a sudden drop, Drummond looking over the severe drop of the cliff.

“If we fell, it could be months til we were found.”

Alfred doesn’t do serious conversation and he tries to inject some kind of vitality. “You seem very calm at the prospect.”

The two being who they are, Drummond seems rather young and miserable when he responds, “I’m more afraid of going back to London,” biting his lips like a schoolboy forced back to Eton after a blissful summer.

Drummond drops the subject and tries changing it. “I noticed you were reading the Iliad on the boat.”

Despite such a strange turn of events, Alfred finds himself responding. “Not in the original, I’m afraid,” his former classics teacher cursing him as a child for his lack of dedication to such languages and cultures.

Since that night at Ma Fletcher’s, where he found himself watching Achilles and Patroclus join together like on their wedding night, he’s found a new love for the books, finding passages he wishes he couldn’t relate to. “I find the death of Patroclus most affecting,” he mentions, remembering how Patroclus clutched at Alfred’s hair as _Edward_ kneeled between his legs.

“Yes. The lengths Achilles went to to honour his friend,” and at that Alfred can’t keep his mouth shut.

“You believe they were friends?”

“I wouldn’t know what else to call them.”

The two of them don’t say anything else, Alfred patting him on the arm before he walks away, expecting Drummond to follow him.

Drummond was never fond of the Iliad. But to see such affections between Achilles and Patroclus, he feels something bright burn inside whenever he looked at Alfred, something like hope and it makes him want to talk as they walk.

“Even if I disliked Florence, my family wouldn’t consider that an obstacle.”

“And do you? Dislike her?” Alfred can’t help but ask, needing to know. He’s not entirely sure whether the answer he receives is that of what he wants.

“No. In fact, I care for her deeply but... I don’t think I’ll ever, erm” and Drummond loses his words, his poise and Alfred connects the dots.

“Love her?”

Drummond stops, Alfred finally understanding such underlying tensions and urging him to keep walking, lest they become lost too.

 

* * *

 

When they return to the sanctuary of the Duke’s home, Drummond immediately blames himself, Alfred jumping to his defence when the Duchess starts feeding the shame and humiliation in Drummond’s core.

After one too many comments from the Duchess, Alfred takes Drummond into a different room by his arm, closing the door behind them.

“It is not your fault,” he tries to persuade Drummond who continues to drink the brandy in his hand. Alfred’s noticed that Drummond isn’t particularly fond of more than one drink at a given point but in the space of less than an hour, his tumbler has been replenished thrice.

“If only I could believe that.”

Alfred wants to offer some kind of comfort but all too aware of where they were, in a room where anyone could find them. Instead he pushes Drummond into a chair and brings the decanter to a small table by the little group of chairs by the hearth.

“We’ll need this.”

 

* * *

 

Early the next morning, a guardsman wakes the whole house save Drummond, who hadn’t slept the entire night and desperately needed some rest. Alfred being the one who forced him into that room, he springs up the stairs where Drummond stalks across the room in deep contemplation before Alfred speaks.

“They’re safe!”

The relief on Drummond’s face is tangible and he rushes forward to hug Alfred, such close contact sparking every nerve in Alfred’s being, even after Drummond moves away from him, mourning his warm embrace.

 

* * *

 

**_“Turn the lights on, honey, I'm surrendering tonight,_ **

**_Although I'm not perfect, I feel perfect in your eyes,_ **

**_Turn the lights on, honey, I don't really wanna hide, not tonight,_ **

**_Come and crash into me 'cause I want us to collide.”_ **

**_\- Collide, Rachel Platten_ **

 

When the dinner time celebrations roll forward, Alfred and Drummond drop to the bottom of the procession, murmuring like school children. His fingers tap on the nearest surface, as if he has to move just a little bit, butterflies excited in his stomach.

“You know Drummond, I believe we may have more fun if we join the servants.”

The smirk on Drummond’s face answers the implied question and they sneak out of the house, following servants in their plain garb until they follow the lilting melodies of folk songs, whiskey shoved into their hands until they link hands and join the dancers in the middle of the woods, so much more enjoyable than the court dances they’re restricted to.

In the evening sky, the sun still reigns high and Alfred feels it warm his skin as well as the whiskey that brings a blush to his cheeks, such high colour added to by virtue of dancing and holding onto Drummond far closer than he ever had done. They come across some small garden with a lake and a statue, cravats long forgotten as they aimlessly meander wherever takes their fancy.

Drummond seems to take a fancy to the whiskey on offer and Alfred has to ask for it multiple times, feeling like he’s back in the army, sharing drinks and joking about as if he wasn’t important. After asking for a wee dran, Alfred looks at Drummond properly, the sun shining on his curls, now brighter and with lighter tints than the dark hair he’s used to at the palace, Drummond now far more relaxed and slinging his jacket over the outreached arm of a statue and standing by the lake.

Even whilst inebriated, Alfred tries to take solemn care not to allow his eyes to wander too long over Drummond’s body, in his shirt sleeves and trousers hugging over every contour of his body. Alfred joins him, screwing the top of the flask and whether it be the drink, the dancing, the merriment or even the sun, Alfred can’t stop his mouth.

“These midsummer evening are so enchanting, don’t you think?”

Drummond’s eyes fall to Alfred’s lips before moving back up, a long silence held before Drummond leans forward, his hands on Alfred’s shoulder as their lips collide before moving back to see Alfred’s eyes open, not in disgust but in _wonder_.

They move in again, Alfred leaning up on tip toes to wrap a hand around Drummond’s neck, shivers running indiscriminately despite the high sun, to keep the taller man closer and all those years, all those comments make it worth it when they finally part, foreheads still touching and noses bumping whilst they smile and feel like gods at the top of the world.

 

* * *

 

They sneak back into the castle under the guise of night. It would have been a shorter journey if Drummond hadn’t kept pushing Alfred against a tree and kissing him every yard or so but Alfred is not one to complain, planning to get his revenge later. With all of the soldiers concentrated on keeping the Crown safe, they come across barely any issues finding their rooms once more.

Their rooms are on opposite sides of the castle and in the main hall, Drummond and Alfred stand there not willing to move away from each other, the backs of their hands just touching. Alfred looks up and finds he cannot deny Drummond who looks at him with such hope he cannot bear to crush it.

Drummond wraps his larger hand around Alfred’s and follows him to the west wing when Alfred leads him out of the main hall, the two of them moving as silently as they can, the door only creaking slightly.

With the door safely locked behind them, Alfred pushes Drummond against it and enacts his revenge, pulling Drummond down to kiss him until the soft gasps become too loud, Drummond reacting with virginal blush.

“What do you want?” Drummond asks lowly. Alfred drops his eyes down Drummond’s body before he remembers where they are, guests in a castle surrounded by a private army.

“To hold you in my arms ‘til there’s no space between us.”

They strip off into their undershirts and drawers before Alfred climbs into bed, Drummond’s head resting on Alfred’s chest and his right leg slung over Alfred’s legs. He yawns loudly before murmuring, “wake me before sunrise, please?”

Alfred runs his fingers through Drummond’s hair in silent agreement, the steady breaths lulling him to sleep.

 

* * *

 

The weak sunlight streams through the window and Alfred wakes up rather warm before looking down, practically half of Drummond’s body draping over Alfred’s. He whispers his name quietly with merely a soft grunt in response. Alfred scratches at the nape of Drummond’s neck and says softly, “Helios rises.” Drummond stirs more and eventually his eyes open slowly, staring at Alfred before he rolls over onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Alfred simply watches him, humming softly when Drummond reaches over and kiss his hand reverently before getting out of bed and picking up his clothes off the floor, sleepy affection in his eyes when he looks at Alfred before leaving the room.

The bed is still warm and Alfred feels like something finally makes sense.

 

* * *

 

Such brightness in Alfred’s soul couldn’t be dulled the next day after the Royal household is told they are to return to London for the opening of Parliament. Only such solemn grief in Drummond’s voice when the two see each other again - “back to London” - dulls it and that night, when he can’t sleep again and he is back home in London, he beseeches God for Drummond’s happiness.

On one such night, he returns back to Ma Fletcher’s, praying that Achilles isn’t currently occupied in Patroclus and the breath he holds whilst waiting for someone to answer his knock at the door feels like the longest he’s held, worth it for the familiar face that greets him.

“Sir! You disappeared for a few days, I wondered where you got to.”

“I was in Scotland but that is not important,” Alfred answers eagerly, the door opened wider to let him in and once the door closes behind him, he finds he is about to burst with happiness.

“I kissed Edward!”

Patroclus looks him expectantly. “You know that is part of our job?”

“No, no! My Edward!” The possessive note in his voice feels so right, like home and Patroclus raises his hands to cover his open mouth.

“Oh that is wonderful!” He proclaims before hugging Alfred, the man fitting underneath Alfred’s chin. “You must celebrate.”

Alfred holds Patroclus by the shoulders and looks at him properly. “I never had the chance to say this. But you are truly wiser than you should be.”

Their ruckus brings attention to them and Ma Fletcher arrives in the corridor with a disapproving look, followed by the boys who were in that room that fateful night.

“Lord Alfred finally kissed his Edward!”

They all cheer for him, claps on his backs, hands shaken and a fierce squeeze from Ma Fletcher.

What an odd family he has found.

 

* * *

 

“I realised something yesterday.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know your birthday.”

Alfred looks up from where he sits on the floor by the fireplace, a book sat in his lap whilst Drummond peruses through Alfred’s collection. To him, the library in Alfred’s home is akin to Alexandria. Parliament had been opened earlier that day, the Queen retiring with a supposed headache and thus the dinner plans in Buckingham Palace had been cancelled. How could Drummond have refused when Alfred had invited him to his home for the evening?

Drummond still looks at him expectedly when Alfred shakes his head and remembers to stop staring at him.

“The twenty-sixth of June.”

“Damn. I didn’t get you anything.”

Both Drummond and Diver move towards Alfred, Drummond cross legged in front of him and Diver lying between the two men, enjoying the warmth of the roaring fire. They both stroke her, her tail wagging not as fervently as before as she falls deeper and deeper into sleep.

“She’s coming into heat. We’ll have to be careful.”

“We?”

Alfred looks up, ready to counter him but he sees Drummond’s teasing smile and slaps him gently on his knee.

“You are incorrigible.”

“Would you have me any other way?

Alfred smiles fondly at that and more than anything, he wants to kiss that grin off Drummond’s face and it may be his house but like he said, back to London.

“I actually have an idea for your birthday present,” Drummond murmurs. Alfred raises his eyebrows and Drummond can already predict what’ll come out of his mouth.

“Yes, I’m more than aware that your birthday has passed. You’ll just have to trust me.”

Normally Alfred would protest at such displays but more than anything, he wants to be the reason to make Drummond smile. If that is it, so be it. Drummond stifles a yawn badly, the long day catching up with him. Alfred’s smile falls minutely before Drummond excuses himself for the night, but not before he raises his hand to cup Alfred’s jaw and stroke along his cheekbone.

“My present ought to be fantastic tomorrow.”

The quip snaps Drummond out of his melancholy mood and he bids him good night before stepping out of 42 Grosvenor Place, Alfred watching him walk away until he blends into the shadows.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Victoria meets with her Prime Minister, their usual companions sharing a wordless conversations through a roll of the eyes, a slight tilt of the head, a twitch of the lips that concealed a grin. Their meeting is as productive as they can be, every Right Honourable Gentleman and Lord too divided to agree upon the Education Act and actually present the sovereign with something to assent.

They finish up quickly and Alfred still feels the butterflies in his stomach, just waiting for Drummond to show him his belated present. Before anyone else can stand up, Drummond rises first and clears his throat slightly.

“Apologies ma’am, Sir Robert. However I thought it best to ask you both at the same time.”

Alfred looks at Drummond with furrowed brows, a gesture shared by all in the room, even Albert and Vicky who sit on a sofa to the side of the room, listening but not participating.

“I wondered if it could be possible for myself and Lord Alfred to have permission to leave London for three weeks.”

“ _Three weeks?!_ ”

If neither man hadn’t grown up in the public sphere, both would have shrunk under the disbelieving stares directed at them.

“You see, Lord Alfred’s dog is at the right time to be with child and I believe mine to be a suitable contender. With three weeks, we could be sure and have a stronger litter. And of course, we would be back before the Christmas recess.”

“But Mr Drummond, where shall you and Lord Alfred go?” Victoria asked, not disapprovingly but curiously.

“Edinburgh, ma’am. My family home will be quiet and remote enough for it to be worth the travel. Of course, time is of the essence in such matters...”

“Quite,” she responded, “I’ve no qualms about releasing Lord Alfred for three weeks.”

The request fell upon Peel who looked like a drowning man looks at land on the horizon. “Drummond, _three weeks_? Graham’s trying to push the Education Bill through and you choose now to go off gallivanting?”

To a stranger, it sounded like a father berating his child but Drummond knew this was Peel’s way of saying ‘I need you’.

“Twenty days?” Drummond looks away to see Alfred playing the realistic diplomat for once. Peel looks heavenward and sighs heavily before removing his glasses from the bridge of his nose.

“A fortnight. And not until after the business statement this week.”

Both men know better than push for more time and whilst everyone collects their papers, Drummond mouths “happy birthday” and Alfred can’t wipe the elated grin off his face. He still can’t stop smiling when he visits his favourite sister the day before they depart for Edinburgh.

“You’re grinning like a mad man,” Adelaide comments before sipping at her tea. Alfred mirrors her before responding.

“Why, would you rather your brother sob and scream?” Adelaide doesn’t respond, only a brief raise of an eyebrow that reminds Alfred so much of their mama. “I’m visiting Scotland in a few days, just for a fortnight.”

“You’re going where for a fortnight?” Speak of the Devil, Lady Charlotte Paget enters the room, perhaps less well dressed than her children but still effortlessly graceful and serene. Both stand up for her and kiss her on the cheek before she sits with Adelaide.

“Scotland, Mama. Mrs Bumps is in heat and Drummond has a Newfoundland. It could make for quite an impressive litter.”

“Alfred dearest, you talk so oft of this Drummond. You must invite him for dinner, I’ve scarcely seen him at Almack’s.”

“Mama, he’s untitled. Sarah Villiers would never let him in.” Adelaide reminded her family. Charlotte merely scoffed.

“I was never aware the Countess guarded the pearly gates on King Street.”

Both Alfred and Adelaide struggle to contain their silent giggles, not looking at each other.

“Perhaps he could come stay when you come back home. He must be a delight, the only other person you’d talk about so much was that Oliver Haddington, do you remember him?”

Alfred freezes, just enough for Adelaide and Charlotte to notice. He clears his throat before talking. “Yes, I recall Ollie. Though I cannot say I’ve seen him since Westminster.”

“His brother’s courting one of Lothian’s daughters now that the eldest is engaged to your friend. I doubt it’ll come to anything, James is painfully aloof and heaven forbid if he talks, he’s merely tactless.”

Adelaide gasped in mock horror. “But Mama! What would Sarah Villiers say about such words!”

“I imagine I’d ask of her _sangre azul_.”

The door opens once more and in enters another gaggle of Pagets. Clarence and George waltz in, the eldest in his navy uniform and the youngest in his army uniform - Alfred almost feels left out without being donned in scarlet. With a brief kiss on their mother’s cheek and a cursory smile at their sister, Clarence, then George both bring Alfred into a tight hug as if he was still a boy.

“You missed my birthday.” Clarence looks at his younger brother pointedly, Alfred rolling his eyes.

“The Queen took a fancy to a Scottish excursion. You could try decline her if you wish.”

George scoffed. “As if you would ever say no to her Majesty. You were her favourite dancing partner before that German arrived...”

Charlotte takes her daughter’s fan and cuffs the back of George’s head with it whilst Clarence smirks.

“I do wish Emily and Mary were still here.” Adelaide laments under her breath, Charlotte nodding whilst looking at her reckless sons.

“Come, come, Alfred. Since we didn’t meet for my birthday, let’s celebrate with something I came across in Paris.” Alfred already remembers those nights of late childhood, his older brothers plying him with whatever drink they smuggled from the ballrooms and regretting the morning after.

“I do have a steamship journey to make tomorrow morning...”

“It is common knowledge you would have already readied yourself and have nothing else to do. Perhaps if you won’t join me, you aren’t a true Paget like George and I here.”

Alfred knows he’s being baited and when his shoulders slump minutely, his brothers know that they have won. And yet, Alfred has an errand of utmost important that he must attend to and so, he promises to be back not an hour after dusk, leaving Old Burlington Street and his family behind. With the sun only just setting, it’s still warm enough that the walk to the nunnery doesn’t feel as laborious as it does in the dark of the night. In an offhand manner, he wonders if anyone really cares about the younger son of a Marquess being seen in such establishments. Of that, he thinks not when the door opens and Ma Fletcher stands as she always does.

“You’re early,” she puts it bluntly. Alfred takes off his stovepipe hat in a silent request to enter and Ma Fletcher closes the door behind him.

“I wondered if I could see Patroclus. Not like- like. _That_. I merely have some questions I hope he could assist me with.” As if to sweeten the deal, Alfred procures a few coins from his pockets. Ma Fletcher takes only one from his hand and pushes Alfred’s hand away.

“He’ll be done soon enough,” she says with a backwards tilt of her head, Alfred’s eyes following to the door on the left hand side, loud grunts and squeaks reaching a crescendo until silence reigns from behind the door. He almost laughs at himself when such carnal voyeurism no longer shocks him, at least not until the door opens. He catches a glimpse of Patroclus’ last client, a face Alfred vaguely recognises from across the Commons but he’s gone soon enough. From the doorway, Alfred watches Patroclus hurriedly put on a pair of stained trousers, tallow and paste running down his legs and bruises on his hips. He turns around to see his audience in the corridor.

“Bloody hell, I’ve just had a spike in me.”

“I’m not here for that. I just require some advice that I can’t get anywhere else.”

“Oh.” Patroclus’ face brightens before he looks around in the room. “Let’s go somewhere, somewhere cleaner.”

“Actually, I think this room might do.”

Neither Ma Fletcher nor Patroclus question it and they’re left to their own devices. Alfred makes no move to sit down anywhere, he’d rather not risk the mess.

“So. Advice?”

Alfred wrings his hands, having tried preparing this during his walk and his mind still stubbornly blank.

“My Edward and I are travelling to Scotland tomorrow. We’ve been relieved of our duties for a fortnight and um. We may become...” Alfred leans forward to practically whisper in Patroclus’ ear, “sodomites.”

Patroclus leans away and looks at Alfred with quirked eyebrows. “You’ve had your article in another man’s mouth and yet you still talk about it like a schoolboy.”

“We don’t exactly get taught this at Westminster. Please, Patroclus. I’ve no one else to turn to. Do I do what you were doing when I first saw you?”

The look of despair on Patroclus’ face would have been comical, had it not been at Alfred’s expense. “If he’s just as bad as you...”

Alfred purses his lips in a vaguely disapproving manner, though he feels as if his old tutor was reprimanding him. Patroclus says nothing and turns to a small, scratched chest of drawers by the rickety bed before fishing out a plain lidded pot that sits in his palm. “You’ll need this.”

Alfred takes the pot from Patroclus’ open hand and opens it, takes a small sniff. “Olive oil?”

“Why do you think it was so popular with the Romans? I might not have gone to Westminster but sometimes I’ll pay attention to some pross who tries justify his ways because the Romans did it. You’re both new to this. I’ve been doing this for four years now and I can take it. Neither of you can shove it in and expect any miracles. Use your hands first, maybe your mouth if you’re feeling confident but don’t choke on it. You’re not some whore like me, legs spread for anyone. You’ve got time.”

Alfred nods his head and smiles. “Thank you so much, for everything you done. Truly, I mean it. And here.” He takes another coin out of his pocket. “If not your assistance, for the oil.” Patroclus takes it and pats Alfred’s arm.

“Enjoy Scotland with your Edward.”

When Alfred reaches the door, something at the back of his mind itches to satisfy its curiosity and he turns around, one hand on the door frame.

“Patroclus, how old are you?”

He looks up in surprise at such a question and Alfred briefly ponders the notion that such questions aren’t asked, until Patroclus looks towards the dirty window, barely any sunlight left to stream in.

“Seventeen years young, not a month ago.”

Alfred briefly calculates his age and there’s something almost ancient about Patroclus’ downtrodden face before he looks up to see his client still in the room. Alfred merely takes another coin from his pocket, a half crown and places it on the bed.

“For another year of wisdom.”

 

* * *

 

Like he promised, Alfred arrives not an hour after dusk and before anyone calls for his presence, he hides the little pot of olive oil in his trunk, buried under floral waistcoats, returning back to his family. Charlotte sits by the fire embroidering, Adelaide sits by the window with scant candlelight writing a letter and the Paget brothers sit side by side reading a book until they hear the creaking of a floorboard.

“How was your errand?” Charlotte asks.

“Fruitful,” he responds without expanding. With a look to Clarence and George, he resigns himself to his fate and follows them into the disused room that became their smoking room. Just after he falls into a chair, a tumbler is given to him, a sniff revealing its heady and sweet scent. Alfred wrinkles his nose and George laughs at him.

“This is the stuff you drink to see the fae. Ghastly drink but it’ll get you hit under the wing faster than Papa’s whiskey.” Clarence explains. They each hold a glass full of absinthe and Clarence raises his drink.

“To my birthday that my younger brother missed because her Majesty is too breathtaking in her-.” Alfred kicks at Clarence’s leg and they all take a large sip, all of them groaning at the burn.

 

* * *

 

When Alfred wakes up in the morning, he’s facedown on his bed, his boots not even off. His head inexplicably hurts and his mouth feels drier than a desert. Even with his eyes still shut, he recognises the sudden sunlight lighting his room and attempts to roll over.

“Between you three, I’ll expire. At least the girls know how to have fun in moderation.”

Alfred groans at his mother’s voice, oh so helpfully dispensing wisdom. She sits down and runs her hand through his messy hair like she did when he was sick as a child.

“Don’t forget your journey today.”

Alfred’s eyes open wide instantly and he almost jumps out of bed before Charlotte presses him back down.

“You’ve a quarter hour until rising. Your trunks are being loaded into the carriage and Diver is ready and waiting.” She leans down to kiss Alfred’s forehead. “I hope you’ll enjoy yourself. I’ll be missing you.”

Charlotte rises to leave Alfred’s chamber and she thinks she hears a faint, “I love you, Mama,” before the snoring starts again.

Eventually he rises when the sun proves too bright to allow the Sandman’s return. In his parents’ home, he dresses himself as well as he can without his valet. Assured of his possessions and his stomach still far too delicate for food, he strides past the dining room where his remaining family wait by the doors, Charlotte and George in conversation - Clarence and Adelaide having visited their sisters.

Once more, Charlotte brings her son into her arms before bestowing a kiss on his forehead. George holds Diver’s leash and escorts both dog and owner outside where Alfred’s carriage waits for its occupants. With the leash handed over, George pats Alfred on the shoulder, somehow taller than his older brother.

“You told some very interesting stories last night. You’ll have to tell us of this girl you spoke of, she seems quite the personality. If only I could got her name before you kept going on about her eyes - I never knew you had such a thing for dark-eyed girls!”

Alfred’s stomach twists and his heart drops but he does his best to smile normally. “I think it has more to do with that horrific concoction Clarence plied us with.” With a brief pat on his shoulder, George hands over Diver’s leash and Alfred climbs into the carriage, his luggage already loaded and Diver already making herself comfortable whilst Alfred sticks his head out of the window and waves farewell to his family until they blur into indistinct figures.

As per the note sent just before a debate in the Commons regarding the Education Bill, Alfred is to meet Drummond at Downing Street and then they are to take the Paget carriage to the docks, where the steamship would take them to Edinburgh. As to be expected, the pathways are just as busy as usual - enough time for Diver to fall back asleep. Without even being aware of closing his eyes, Alfred slumps against the side of the carriage and falls fitfully asleep.

Since that meeting in the palace, Alfred lamented the lack of Drummond’s presence, half entertaining the notion that it was Peel’s punishment. Soon enough there’s a knock on the carriage door and Alfred startles awake, Clark the coachman alerting his master to their arrival. Alfred rubs at his eyes, still worse for wear and without waking Diver, the front door to Drummond’s lodgings opens and Alfred steps out of the carriage, eager to see his...

His...

His Edward?

With a shake of his head and a stifled yawn, Alfred takes in the view of Drummond struggling with his luggage and trying to keep a hold on Jupiter, who pulls eagerly on the leash. Alfred steps forward and procures the leash from Drummond’s hand so that he can deposit his belongings in front of the coachman.

“Where are your servants? Surely they should be doing this for you?” Alfred questions, Jupiter slowly but surely calming down.

“I told my housekeeper and valet they weren’t needed for this fortnight. I suppose they’re curious as to why, but I hope their advanced Midsummer wages will be enough to satisfy their curiosity.”

The coachman having packed Drummond’s trunks, the two men both get into the Paget’s carriage, sat side by side so that there is sufficient room for both Diver and Jupiter. Owing to the early hour of the day, even Jupiter is calmer than usual and Diver simply falls back asleep.

With the carriage windows open and as London settles itself ready for the next day, Alfred sits a respectable distance away from Drummond but even the morning breeze isn’t enough to prevent Alfred’s drooping eyelids. He tries shaking himself awake but eventually his eyelids feel just so heavy and surely a moment’s rest couldn’t be treasonous.

 

* * *

 

Alfred wakes with a start when he hears seagulls outside the carriage. From his position, he deduces that he’s slumped over, his head on Drummond’s shoulder and the window’s curtains pulled over. A brief look upwards, Drummond struggles to suppress a smile and a giggle before he looks down.

“You snore.”

“I do not!”

If anything, it makes Drummond smile properly, like the last time they were in Scotland. “We’ve just pulled into the docks. You might want to rearrange yourself.”

“You’d need to rearrange yourself after the night I had.”

Drummond’s raised eyebrow begs the question but their steamship awaits. With tickets already procured, all that is left is for the dock workers to load the luggage and for the pair to keep their dogs relaxed. Diver, seeing the water, barks repeatedly, a stroke behind the ear enough to subdue most of her excitement. They must make an odd sight, an aristocrat and a Parliamentarian with their respectable dogs waiting by their side whilst the steamship is prepared.

“Last night?”

Alfred groans at Drummond’s question and rubs his face with his free hand, Diver whining.

“Whilst we were preoccupied in the Highlands, I missed my brother’s birthday. He decided a belated celebration was due and made us drink this vile concoction he claims as Parisian. Lethal, I’ll tell you. Apparently I couldn’t stop talking about some dark-eyed girl.” With just the right inflection in this voice, Alfred notes the point when Drummond understands.

“A dark-eyed girl you say? You must tell me more.”

“Where can I start? She’s beautiful of course. She looks quite serious most of the time but that just makes her smiles even more precious. She even planned an excursion to Scotland for my birthday, even when my birthday had already passed.”

“My, my. You must be pleased.”

“Pleased couldn’t even describe it.”

They both look off into the distant sea from the docks, not daring to look at each other and Alfred feels a gentle finger run over his knuckles before that hand rips away lest someone see. But still, it is enough in the docks for the two of them.

And soon enough, it is time for the two to board their steamship, such technology allowing a journey of hours as opposed to days. Once more, they stay on deck rather than retreat to the relative sanctuary of the ship's interior. They both justify to themselves that they couldn't possibly crowd other passengers with their dogs. As a Newfoundland and a Golden Retriever, male and female respectfully, Drummond and Alfred do their best to keep Jupiter and Diver apart from each other, not particularly conducive to any kind of discussion.

Alfred feels at home on a ship. He's not a navy man, army through and through but he does find that there is something almost whimsical - the gentle sway of the ship, the salty sea spray clinging to his hair and clothes that he cannot muster the energy to be annoyed at, the constant horizon. It's not a marvellous view from the deck but clear enough that the vague fog in the distance is merely an errant thought.

It seems their roles are reversed, Jupiter calm and content to lay by Drummond's feet and Diver tugging on her lead to somehow manouever herself closer to the water, exactly what Alfred really didn't want to deal with. His offhand thoughts disappear like fireplace smoke when he hears a few footsteps behind him with the cry of "puppy!"

Both he and Drummond turn around to place the voices, a small girl of no more than six years of age running away from her exasperated parents. She stops herself perhaps half a yard away from where Alfred and Diver stand and Drummond simbly observes, like a scientist in the wild. Alfred squats down slightly so that he seems less frightening to the child. After quick eye contact with her parents, Alfred begins to talk.

"Do you like dogs?"

"Yes, sir, very much."

"Would you like to meet mine?"

Her eyebrows raise beyond belief, even more so when Diver becomes her sweet usual self, wagging her tail and receptive to all affection. Jupiter proves a more difficult task, having fallen asleep to the rhymic sway of the steamship.

The girl giggles, even when Diver licks her face and even her parents smile fondly.

“What’s your name?”

“Isabel, sir.”

“Isabel. That’s a very pretty name. This is Diver.” At this point, he leans in and stage whispers. “But I like to call her Mrs Bumps.”

Isabel giggles and by this point, Jupiter’s starting to have an interest in this new human, who barely stands taller than either dog. The steamship rocks somewhat and both Alfred and Isabel slip on the slick exposed floor, tears threatening to fall from her eyes until Jupiter nudges at her back, gently pushing her up until she can grab onto Diver and stand once more. Her parents thank Alfred and the dogs, leading their daughter back into the drier and safer interior.

Alfred, having stood up and brushed off as much moisture from his clothes, turns around to catch Drummond fondly smiling. It feels like home when he walks back over to him, their dogs following. It’s just them and an endless horizon full of possibilities.

 

* * *

 

Alfred’s not entirely sure of what he expected of Edinburgh. He knows in theory, it would be colder than London, the tail end of summer drifting past but the chill threatens his composure. He’s never been so grateful when Drummond ushers him towards a carriage, a small sanctuary of warmth in the docks.

Like a gentleman, Drummond allows Alfred in first and follows, moving to sit on the bench opposite - though they were nowhere near the Court, there were no curtains in the carriage for any kind of privacy. Jupiter has a different idea and instead slips past Drummond to settle himself on the opposite bench, Diver settling herself on the floor of the carriage. Alfred merely raises his eyebrows and with a wry smile, Drummond sits next to his...

To his...

The carriage lurches forward and Alfred prays that the small vial of olive oil doesn’t crack and leak over his clothes. It is somewhat warmer inside the carriage but Alfred notes that Drummond is far warmer than he is and slowly, gradually scoots closer to Drummond who makes polite conversation.

“It’ll be an hour until we reach home. We do have a townhouse not too far from the dock but I thought some privacy would be in order and...”

Drummond looks away from the window he’d been staring out of to see the outside of their thighs touching, Alfred inching his hand over. Without a word or a glance, Drummond takes Alfred’s hand, gasps briefly at how cold it is. Just looking at him, Drummond can tell Alfred hasn’t paid attention to anything that’s been said in the carriage. And yet Drummond continues, determined to get his attention.

“Like I said, it’s further away but the gardens are delightful. I think you’ll find the dusk there quite enchanting.”

The only response he gets is a squeeze of the hand and for the rest of the journey, they look out of their respective windows, squeezing the other’s hand, a soft tap on the wrist, tracing in one’s palm, a flood of conversation in silence.

 

* * *

 

As promised, they arrive at the Drummond country residence within the hour and despite such comforting stillness, Alfred appreciates the opportunity to stretch his legs once more, the dogs having similar notions.

A small group of servants emerge from the door, no more than three men, to take the boxes and cases and Alfred follows when Drummond makes his way to the door and waits for him. With a quick look back to the carriage, assured of no prying eyes, Drummond ushers Alfred into his home with a warm hand on the small of Alfred’s back.

Alfred is quite overcome by this Drummond, perhaps the man he truly is, and God, he wants to kiss him again, to be back by some Scottish lake with the sun in his eyes and Drummond in his arms. The spell breaks when a door opens and a small gasp - and person - emerge.

“Ned!”

Drummond turns around and his face lights up. “Aunt Theresa!” He leaves Alfred behind to stride towards her before leaning down considerably and kissing her on the cheek, his own cheek pinched in response.

“You’ve grown once more.”

“You say this every time.”

“Perhaps you should stop growing.”

Alfred can’t help a small smile to see Drummond so free and happy, easily cracking jokes.

“Ned, you’re a terrible host, you ought to introduce us.”

“Of course, of course.” Drummond extracts himself and gestures towards Alfred. “Aunt Theresa, this is my good friend, Lord Alfred Paget, from the Palace. Lord Alfred, this is my father’s sister, Aunt Theresa.”

Alfred bows slightly and tries to understand how his Drummond and this short, stout woman could be related.

“They named me Charlotte,” Theresa interrupts, “but I thought that was too boring.” Her frankness is refreshing and Alfred can already imagine the plethora of stories she’s amassed.

"Thank you so much for having me, it's a pleasure to meet more of the Drummonds. It's not often I have time away from the palace."

“Ned never really brought any friends back, you must be special.”

Drummond makes a noise in his throat and Alfred stifles laughter.

“Lord Alfred, perhaps I could escort you to your room,” Drummond says just a tad too forcefully for it to be natural. A single manservant emerges to bring their luggage with them and Alfred prays to God that the cases stay unpacked, the small jar hidden under a shirt. The dogs wander in through the door and Theresa casts her eyes to the heavens.

“Another of those wretched creatures?”

Jupiter crosses the room and sniffs around his domain whilst Diver sits by Alfred’s side, calm and collected until Alfred follows Drummond as they leave for their rooms, a sharp whistle urging the dogs along.

At the top of the staircase, Drummond shortens his strides. “I apologise for my aunt. She often stays here whilst Mama and Papa are in London and she doesn’t often see new people.”

“Not even your friends?” Alfred teases, Drummond merely huffing at such a suggestion. They walk along a corridor until they reach a door slightly ajar.

“I’ll leave you to get settled in. Supper should be in an hour but I’ll fetch you later.”

Drummond goes to leave but Alfred grabs him by the arm, suddenly confident.

“Thank you.” _Thank you for this present._

They both smile and Alfred trails his hand further, gently holding Drummond’s jaw. The manservant is hidden in some corner of the room, not paying any attention and Drummond’s eyes close for a second before he reluctantly releases himself and leaves Alfred in the doorway of his room.

It being the second Drummond residence, there’s few servants to be found, lesser so a valet for Alfred and so he unpacks whatever trunks the manservant brought in as well as he can, not quite sure of what he’s doing. When he unfolds his shirts, something falls out and it’s only a soldier’s reflexes that allows him to grab it and he suddenly remembers the hidden olive oil.

 

* * *

 

Supper is a peaceful affair, only the Drummonds and Lord Alfred. Theresa continues to mercilessly tease her nephew and Alfred notes that the man opposite him blushes such a sweet colour. They talk of everything and nothing, Theresa a fountain of knowledge and anecdotes that keeps the conversation flowing.

“I suppose tomorrow we could take our companions on a walk tomorrow, familiarise Diver if we want her to be comfortable.”

Alfred had completely forgot about the supposed purpose of the trip but he takes a sip of wine to buy some time and responds smoothly. “Of course, we must hope they’ll breed successfully.”

And once more, he thinks of that jar.

 

* * *

 

They all retire early, a long day and an early start even starting to catch on Alfred who had slept for part of the journey. He wishes he could bid his Drummond a proper ‘good night’, one that he deserves with another kiss but Theresa somehow manages keep Drummond in conversation long enough that Alfred gives up. It’s only the tiny smile that Drummond manages over his shoulder as Theresa drags him along that lights a spark of hope. 

Alfred doesn’t sleep well. He wakes more often than not when the moon still reigns in the night sky, curious about the cause until he feels a heavy heat settle in his gut, not even looking under the blankets. It is to be a long night, if the thrumming in his blood is to be believed.

Drummond doesn’t sleep well. He wakes more often than not when the moon still reigns in the night sky, curious about the cause until he feels a heavy heat settle in his gut, not even looking under the blankets. It is to be a long night, if the thrumming in his blood is to be believed.

 

* * *

 

Theresa notices the dullness in her nephew’s eyes when he arrives in the dining room for breakfast the next morning, the two waiting for Alfred who required just another minute to properly present himself. And yet when the door opens and Alfred emerges, he’s like a candle lit, sudden light and warmth in his bones once more.

“Lord Alfred.

“Drummond, Miss Drummond.”

She observes the two men as they sit side by side, half of their conversation not uttered by open mouths but with eyes and hands that say everything and anything. In a way, she regrets to interrupts.

“Ned, I thought you ought to know I’ll be visiting a friend tonight and I plan to overnight there.” She doesn’t question the sudden glimmer of hope in Edward’s eyes and instead she bids her nephew farewell shortly after breakfast. She stands outside the front door, the coachman loading a case that was too heavy for only one night. She turns around to hug her favourite nephew who’s winded when she grabs onto his shoulder 

“Make sure to look after yourselves. And don’t do anything that would hurt a member of her Majesty’s court.”

Drummond rolls his eyes, almost ready to talk about it but before some smart comment, she climbs into the carriage and waves at her nephew and his guest.

 

* * *

 

**_“And I was running far away,_ **

**_Would I run off the world someday?_ **

**_Nobody knows, nobody knows,_ **

**_And I was dancing in the rain,_ **

**_I felt alive and I can't complain,_ **

**_But now take me home,_ **

**_Take me home where I belong.”_ **

**_\- Runaway, Aurora_ **

 

“This is remarkably convenient,” Alfred notes, Diver and Jupiter running ahead of them across a vast field before they reach the small woods on the edge of the Drummond estate. With the sun shining down on them, Drummond puts their picnic basket down and deigns to remove his jacket and catches Alfred’s drift - as well as his gaze.

“What more could I ask for? A beautiful summer’s day, our dogs waiting for us, an empty house and you by my side.”

Alfred’s breath hitches, Drummond refusing to look him in the eye until two fingers under his chin raise those molten brown eyes up.

“I don’t know how I could ever thank you.” The ‘ _for everything_ ’ was unspoken.

“You did when you didn’t recoil the last time it was just us two.” With unusual confidence and after a brief check, Drummond leans down slightly to take Alfred’s hand, the height difference making it somewhat uncomfortable. Instead, they loop their corresponding arms, Alfred’s tucked under Drummond’s and his hand resting on Drummond’s bicep. The resulting smiles shine brighter than the midday sun.

Soon enough, they reach the trees, the shade a welcome refuge and the dogs continue to bound forward, leaving their owners behind. Drummond knows his way around the ancient trees like a nighttime prayer and eventually they come across a small clearing where the sun streams in through the withering leaf canopies, sunlit highlights in Alfred’s hair that reminds Drummond of seraphim.

“Do you remember the last time we were surrounded by so much nature?”

Drummond chuckles fondly. “If only there was a lake.”

“Let’s pretend.”

Alfred’s hand rises cup Drummond’s jaw, a thumb just resting on his cheekbone and Drummond’s hand drifts to the blond’s waist, as if they are two magnets. Distantly, Drummond wonders who is positive and who is negative. But right now, he has his Alfred in his hands. Unlike their lakeside kiss, they lean towards each other, a dangerous game played with shared gazes until Alfred reaches up and Drummond leans down at the same time, enough for half mast eyelids to flutter the closer they become.

Last time, it was desperation and whiskey.

This time, it is sunshine and a heart too full of love.

Parting almost hurts. Kissing Alfred, kissing Drummond, it feels like home, like the first blue sky after winter. A closer than expected bark makes the duo jump apart and Jupiter comes bounding forward, Diver not too far away either and Alfred remembers the official reason for their brief visit.

“I suppose the Queen will be hoping for a new puppy soon enough,” Drummond notes, a low noise of assent in Alfred’s throat. Even though it is still morning, a surge of sleepy satisfaction hums softly and Drummond brings Alfred down to lie with him in the grass, the sun still brilliant behind closed eyelids. A soft smile appears on Drummond’s face when he feels Alfred rest his head on his chest, the additional weight a welcome reminder that this truly isn’t a dream.

“I don’t think I’ve ever experienced _happiness_ like this.” Drummond feels Alfred’s smile grow in response where it grazes above his heart. “I don’t think I ever want to experience anything else if it meant we could live in this moment.”

He doesn’t expect Alfred to surge up, delicate fingers tracing Drummond’s lips before leaning in to kiss him, only moving away when he hears rustling ahead of where they lie on the grass. Drummond makes a noise of discontent when Alfred looks up, following his gaze until he sees Diver and Jupiter in quite the comprising position. Drummond and Alfred look at each other for a moment with wide eyes before grins split their faces, shoulder quaking with the burden of stomach-born laughter and tears leaking from their eyes. 

“Well, I suppose we won’t have to disappoint her Majesty if the Lord smiles upon us,” Drummond quips before rolling onto his stomach, folded arms an impromptu pillow for his head, face turned towards Alfred. Without the constraints of society and court, Drummond allows himself to look at Alfred properly, not merely a quick glance when no one was present to witness such improper observations. Long eyelashes frame expressive eyes, ones that harbour affection in measures previously impossible. Careful fingers wander to the nape of Drummond’s neck, gently tracing abstract patterns on his back, sending pleasant shivers throughout Drummond’s frame.

“I hope there will be quite the litter, I’m sure Florence would want...”

Alfred trails off when Drummond’s eyes cloud over and an apology rolls off his tongue until Drummond raises a finger to push against Alfred’s plush lips.

“Can we just pretend that home doesn’t exist? That we are the only men in the world and that nothing else matters?”

Childhood indoctrination demands that Alfred disagrees, that he reiterate that fiancées and expectations will follow them to this clearing but then he remembers the affectionate smiles, the weight lifted off Drummond’s shoulders since arriving here.

“Whatever you wish, darling.”

Alfred can pretend, despite the temporary bliss, humming softly when Drummond brushes a few stray blades of grass from his sunlit hair.

“You remind me of a cat,” Drummond murmurs whilst continuing to card his fingers through Alfred’s hair, stopping for a brief moment before Alfred pushes his head against the open palm.

“I’ve no idea how you believe that preposterous statement,” Alfred says seriously, his smile exposing the true sentiment behind his words. Drummond says nothing but attempts to get up, Alfred clinging onto his shirt.

“Must I move?”

“Well I, for one, know of the best spot for a fantastic view whilst we eat lunch.”

With only a little more persuasion and cajoling, Alfred follows Drummond, hands linked whilst the picnic basket is held in Drummond’s free hand. Alfred whistles sharply, Diver running towards her owner and Jupiter eventually following when the trees inevitably bore him. To Alfred’s credit, he doesn’t complain about the slight incline of the worn down path in the thick, humid air but when they reach their destination, Drummond wishes he could paint this one moment in time, something to cherish in his later days. Alfred stands stock still, his mouth open in awe and wonder. From their position, they can see miles and miles of farmland and greenery, interrupted by small settlements, the horizon meeting nature rather than the city.

“This is beautiful,” Alfred says with such kindness in his voice, Drummond can’t help but pull him in by the waist to lay a brief kiss on the blond’s temple. He doesn’t know if he can survive the tempest of emotions in Alfred’s eyes. Instead he lays the basket down, crouching to extract a large, well worn blanket for the two men, a sheet of paper fluttering out from in between the folds of the blanket.

“Could you?” Drummond asks of Alfred who merely clears his throat before reciting the letter.

_My dearest Ned,_

_We have been blessed with such wonderful weather, the harvests have been bountiful. Here is some food for later and a handful of candied raspberries for you and your friend._

_Yours affectionately,_

_Theresa_

 

* * *

 

 

“ ** _Give me one drop,_**

**_I can feel you,_ **

**_Make me lose control,_ **

**_We be walking,_ **

**_On the water,_ **

**_We're moving in a technicolour beat,_ **

**_Moving in a technicolour beat.”_ **

**_\- Technicolour Beat, Oh Wonder_ **

 

Drummond snorts whilst spreading the blanket and laying the food out. “We’re just as good friends as Achilles and Patroclus were.” It takes a moment for the confusion to clear from Alfred’s eyes and instead a hearty laugh erupts, even after both men settle on the blanket.

“Close your eyes and open your mouth,” Drummond instructs. Alfred cooly raised an eyebrow but closes his eyes anyway.

“Amongst a certain crowd, that could be quite a request.” Drummond’s glad that Alfred doesn’t see neither his rolling eyes nor his flushed cheeks and instead opens the box filled with candied raspberries, fingertips stained pink when he picks out the plumpest raspberry and sets it on Alfred’s tongue like communion.

Sweetness bursts in Alfred’s mouth and his eyes flutter open, Drummond’s gaze intense. Teasingly, Alfred dips his tongue out to lap at an errant drop of juice in the corner of his mouth and proclaims silent victory when Drummond lurches towards him, kissing him hotly until they slow down, just breathing in the same air.

“The Devil incarnate,” Drummond murmurs. Alfred’s eyes remain innocent but his lazy smirk suggests otherwise.

“Well then. Allow me to corrupt you even more.”

Alfred moves forward with too much momentum behind him and rather than placing his hands on Drummond’s shoulders, he pushes him down on the blanket, not unwelcome if the surprised grin on Drummond’s face is to be believed. The brunet shifts himself up to rest on his elbow, clearly dragging his gaze up and down Alfred’s form.

“Are you going to leave me here by my lonesome?”

Well, with such a question, how could Alfred refuse? He goes to merely kneel by Drummond’s side but large hands hold him by the waist and drag him closer, pulling Alfred with a new vigour, thighs stretched across his lap.

“Kiss me,” Alfred asks, his voice barely audible over the distant thunder that neither of them pay any attention to. Drummond pulls him down, Alfred’s arms looped around the other man’s neck until they’re both horizontal, Drummond’s hands still resting on his waist in a manner that Alfred enjoys more than he’d like to admit. Both inch closer and closer, eyes drooping shut until—

_Crack_

A bolt of lightning paints the sky in brilliant white, dark clouds rolling in until the heavens open, immediately drenching the landscape. Alfred jumps up, gaze turned to their picnic, lunch quickly becoming sodden.

“Shit!” Alfred grits out vehemently, Drummond quite unused to such language. Both start collecting any salvageable remains, Drummond reaching for the basket and blanket, Alfred holding the few offerings that were too delicate to shove back into its home. Immediately they both ran, Drummond frantically recalling hidden short cuts and a shrill whistle conjures Jupiter and Diver, bounding by their sides until a cluster of trees provides enough shelter to warrant respite.

Drummond’s hair curls further still and Alfred’s shirt is soaked, clinging to his chest and perhaps if it wasn’t for such dire circumstances, they could appreciate the other man more.

“I don’t suppose you have a pavilion anywhere?” Alfred asks, the resultant look answering his question. The blanket drenched, there was only one option.

“I’ll race you back,” Drummond declares before running off, a clear advantage that Alfred scoffs at before giving chase. True, it is less than desirable circumstances but whilst Drummond’s strides trump his, Alfred is a soldier with years of army service and stamina, quickly side by side with him - Diver and Jupiter ahead of them but just as close a call as their owners.

The sight of the manor is welcome, even through a thick wall of heavy raindrops that continue to seep into their very bones and eventually Alfred reaches the front door first, Drummond pushing it open before they all tumble through.

“What did your aunt say about the weather?”

With a withering look, “well, aren’t you quite the comic?”

Alfred snickers even as the canine duo shake water off of their coats, Drummond turning for another corridor.

“Where to now?”

“The library. It has the best fireplace and we’ll need to warm up sharpish lest we catch our deaths. I hope you’re not hungry anymore,” Drummond quips whilst lifting the sodden basket for a moment. Alfred could make a comment about hungering for something else but the sweet look on Drummond’s face, as if he’s genuinely sorry for not informing the weather that rain was inexcusable, thank you very much, makes him smile instead.

“Let’s warm up first.”

Drummond takes Alfred by the hand and leads him down a corridor towards the back of the house, the heavy door already ajar and the crackles of a fire already steady. The door closed behind the two, Alfred marvels at every wall covered by a bookcase stuffed to the brim.

“Take whatever you want,” Drummond says offhandedly, turning around from Alfred whose index fingers rises to rest on his lips, deep in thought.

“I don’t suppose you have any Dickens? Her Majesty’s still rather fond of him despite what the Prince thinks and I didn’t bring my copy of...”

Alfred looks back briefly to wait for Drummond’s response but instead he’s greeted with the vision of him pulling his soaked shirt off, back muscles rippling with the motion of it. Said man turns around, perplexed at the cut-off sentence.

“Oh I’ve been truly blessed,” Alfred murmurs before he does something ungentlemanly like stare at Drummond’s chest.

Which of course he proceeds to do anyway. For a somewhat-politician, Alfred thanks any deity for this heavenly sight.

“Well, I do believe you’re quite overdressed at present,” Drummond says, as if the way he crossed his arms didn’t make Alfred’s mouth water.

Alfred responds with a cheeky grin, “I suppose I ought to rectify such an issue,” before crossing his arms and reaching for the bottom of his shirt and pulling it up his torso until the clinging material catches on his shoulders, chest bare but arms and head quite stuck. Wiggling around offers little help and he can already hear Drummond’s stifled laughter before he steps closer and the shirt is completely pulled off, Alfred’s hair quite the mess.

Whilst Alfred would normally appreciate such smirks in his direction, it also sparks something warm in his stomach and he loops his arms around Drummond’s neck, pulling him down until their lips graze, Drummond’s eyes dark and lids drooping. With rarely shown strength, Alfred pushes him into a high-backed chair parallel to the fireplace, barely a moment before he drops himself into Drummond’s lap and those blessed hands wrap around his waist once more. He surges upwards, one hand moving to hold Alfred’s jaw before kissing him again, tongues brushing and Drummond feels like he’s drowning, dragging his lips away and down the column of Alfred’s neck, the blond’s head thrown back whilst his hands bury themselves into chocolate brown curls.

“Oh _fuck_!” Alfred whispers, his breath hitching.

“Such a filthy mouth,” Drummond mutters lowly against the hinge of his jaw before Alfred moves even closer, his lips brushing Drummond’s ears.

“Then do something about it.”

Honestly, what _else_ was he supposed to do?

With perhaps less grace than he hoped for, Drummond’s desire for more of his sinful mouth instead translates to tipping them both out of the chair, Alfred sprawled on the rug by the fire place and Drummond holding himself above the other man with nervous energy.

“Oh God, I didn’t- I didn’t mean to!” His anxious rambling’s cut off by hearty laughter, Alfred’s shoulders shaking with mirth.

“It’s rather lonely down here,” Alfred comments, his hands moving to the nape of Drummond’s neck and more importantly, his legs parting just enough, the sight enough for goosebumps to grow across his chest and for his body to move into that space without thought. Neither would admit to it but the groans and whimpers when their hips met were like angel song.

Like the first morsel of food after fasting, they both want more, Alfred’s hand tracing down his spine until it rests on the small of Drummond’s back, the slightest of pressure to force his hips further downwards.

Alfred’s head falls back onto the rug when he finds Drummond as _excited_ as himself, pressing his hips upwards to chase the sensation. “Oh heavens _above_ , Edward.” Drummond’s arms collapse from where his hands steadied himself either side of Alfred’s head, instead his forearms bearing the brunt of his weight when his lips capture Alfred’s before he tucks his face in the blond’s neck.

“Alfred please, please, I need-“

Alfred shushes him softly and coos, “you’re doing so well, just don’t stop,” until Drummond ruts ever faster, panting loudly and Alfred closes his eyes, the sensation, the building heat all too much until a litany of gasps and a series of stronger thrusts makes him open them again, just in time to feel Drummond’s mouth open in a high whimper and his hips finally still, just a suggestion of wet heat by Alfred’s desire that isn’t his own. With a final bucking of his hips, a soft keen stuck in his throat left over from the army barracks and a “ _oh Edward!”_ , Alfred comes too, neck exposed as Edward continues to mouth at it until they’re both breathing heavily, neither the sticky messes nor their still damp trousers yet worrying the two.

Alfred turns his head, fingers pushing at Edward’s jaw until he gets the message, kissing softly before they’re both smiling too much for it to be worth the effort. Edward rolls off to lay next to Alfred.

“That was...”

“I know.”

They both snicker before rolling onto their sides, close enough to count the other’s freckles.

“And to think we have two weeks here...” Edward trails off.

“And the dogs seem to be looking after themselves,” Alfred replies, eyebrows arched until Edward pulls him close.

“What _are_ we going to do?”

The resultant pleased hum when Edward kisses him again answers the question.

  

* * *

 

“How was your trip?” Victoria asks when Edward and Alfred return to court in a fortnight. They both bow respectfully, Peel not quite entirely pleased with Edward’s absence and Victoria hoping for news of an upcoming arrival to Buckingham Palace’s menagerie.

“Quite well, ma’am. We hope that our efforts will be successful and soon enough Diver will present with puppies if we are blessed,” Alfred explains, ever the courtier in relaying messages in the constrains of court. “And of course, it was _pleasurable_ to explore the Drummonds’ grounds.”

“If anything, it was _satisfying_ to introduce Lord Alfred to some of the Scottish delicacies.”

The conversation continues, the subject changed when Peel mentions Brunel’s new steamship, Albert delighted at such advanced workmanship. Alfred and Edward share more looks whilst the others are distracted, desire in their gazes that they think no one notices.

But Wilhelmina, she notices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve never posted smut and honestly it was so difficult trying to keep it vanilla I never thought that was an issue I had to contend with but my first draft was significantly kinkier lmao 
> 
> So anyway, first year of uni completed! I somehow managed to get through exams and only pulled a couple of all nighters to get coursework handed in, after all, diamonds are made under pressure. I’ll be in Paris tomorrow but I’ll still be able to answer any comments <3
> 
> Research notes:  
> \- Sarah Vielliers, Countess of Jersey was a prominent society woman and was a large figure in Almack’s, quite possibly THE thing to be a member of at that time. The quip about her blood refers to the fact her mother-in-law was a mistress of George IV and Sarah herself had multiple affairs, potentially also with Viscount Palmerston, Prime Minister and Lord Melbourne’s brother-in-law by his sister Emily  
> \- when I wrote Theresa, I was sure she actually existed historically but I can’t find any records now so oh well, she was useful for the plot line  
> \- sex workers in the Victorian era were typically in their twenties but young men, such as Patroclus, were also in high demand for their youthful, effeminate looks. I did mean to find proper sources for this but instead I found this cool documentary about [bacha bazi in Afghanistan](https://youtu.be/eM-xe6wHjnw) which is pretty fucked up, worth a watch if you can cope with it 
> 
> Hmu on [Tumblr](%E2%80%9Clostlibraryofalex.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D) if you want

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I have a fair amount of this already written but unfortunately not all of next chapter which I feel considering how expansive this 'verse is, must be edited quite heavily in order to reflect that. 
> 
> Some clarification on historical points in this fic  
> \- homosociality in Regency society and particularly in public schools often led to some kind of sexual activity among students, frequently between a younger and an older student. Who was watching James and Alfred? I wrote this and I have no clue. It wasn't actively encouraged but it wasn't entirely discouraged either  
> \- Alexander and Hephaestion. Maybe gay, maybe not. There's evidence either way  
> \- Drummond attending Oxford: "The late lamented Mr. Edward Drummond was of Christ Church. He was matriculated on the 23rd of October, 1810, but never, as we believe, proceeded to a Degree, being removed to the Treasury at an early age." From a contemporary newspaper report of his death, found by Holly. Apart from Drummond being born far later in this fic, this will follow with the idea that Drummond attended Oxford at 18 but left for politics  
> \- the painting in question: "Alexander and Hephaestion" by Louis Gauffier, painted in 1791. Gauffier was a French painter who fled to Florence and often sold his art to English tourists. I had to mess around with the timeline but essentially, one of the leaders at Oxford became Catholic in 1845 and Catholicism was more or less accepted there. If you all just accept this religious change happening 15 years earlier and that James blames Catholics for the gay invasion of the Oxford art collection, that'll do nicely
> 
> I'm on @lostlibraryofalex on Tumblr (won't let me link idk why ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯)


End file.
